The Woes of a Domestic Goddess in Hiking Boots

I believe that I should first pay tribute to Wife for the "Domestic Goddess" title; one of the many hats we both try to wear.

This evening's problems started with a Hanukkah present; my parents got me a pressure cooker. This is the most recent in a long line of "domesticating" gifts: a sewing machine, a crock pot, a salad spinner, an onion chopper, a cuisinart mixer, Braun handmixer, and a set of Pyrex baking glassware. Most of them have been and continue to be very useful, but the pressure cooker... I just don't need it. Besides the fact that my mom and I have had several conversations about whether or not it was a necessary establishment in the kitchen that I thought concluded with us determining that, for my purposes, it was not essential, I a) don't have space, and b) tend to cook meals for me. Myself. Alone. Not enough to pressurize.

I think it is also worth mentioning the first gift that immediately preceded the pressure cooker: a gift certificate to Home Depot.

It's a complex interweaving of issues at a societal and individual level. I am far more excited about the possibilities at Home Depot than I am with the possibilities of cooking carrots in only four minutes. And I managed to pull an awful faux pas by more or less saying that I didn't really want the pressure cooker (why can't I just shut up and say "thank you"?), and then trying to recover by mentioning all of the domesticating gifts my family has given me over the years.

I LIKE my "domestic" gifts. I like the fact that I was track mom, and hall mom, and set mom. I like the fact that I can cook, that bake cookies and pies for people, that I send greeting cards and bring soup (if I can) when people are sick. I also like being able to carry heavy boxes to the car for other people, driving stickshifts and trucks with trailers, and knowing how to transplant trees and assemble furniture.

But somehow I'm not allowed to have these different roles. I can't not like makeup but enjoy baking cookies. I can't wear hiking boots to work and know how to dress up for formal events. I can't do "man of the house" scary or gross tasks or be "one of the guys" without somehow losing my right to be feminine. When the hell did that happen? When did practical become exclusively separate from beautiful?

I'm tired of getting roasted by aunts and grandparents for not dressing up, and when I do, being unable to perform necessary tasks because I'm trapped in heels on a broken glass-littered floor. I'm tired of being looked at as the "odd one", or "the one who never really got it" because I don't own six different coats and tried to explain that they didn't really need another jacket in a slightly different shade of red to my teenage girl cousins. And I'm tired of fading into the background because I spent so much time working to be seen as an equal to my male counterparts that I fade into the background when "more flatteringly" dressed and vulnerable women step into the light. Did I miss some social roles class in high school, or did everyone else?

I know there are exceptions to this apparent rule. The conversations while pulling weeds or fixing equipment, a genuine thank you for gifts or food, and the occasional catch of an eye while clawing my way through the destruction of invasive thorny hedges (there's something very enticing about looks that can be exchanged over branches ripping your hair, clothes, and skin, and over drinks on a nice night out). I suppose it's just that when enough "you really should" comments mix with an unintentional ability to fade into the wall, it's probably a good indication that those exceptions need to make themselves a whole lot more common.

Happy Holidays.