I'm suffering one of my least favourite types of doldrums today.
I've planned to stay home for the day in order to make things and read and write, but I feel like a "housewife". I feel unintelligent, lazy, frivolous, and obscure.
"Do I have nothing better to do than knit Hogwarts scarves, bake cookies, read A Brief History of Time and write poetry? How disgustingly female."
Let me spend fifteen minutes fixing up my hair and applying mascara, and I'll feel even worse.
Let me wash even one dish and I might just collapse into a puddle of daytime television. (Except that we don't own a TV, and I've never had any desire to watch even ten minutes of a soap opera.)
But I'm fighting it. I'm about to go off and put on makeup before washing a whole sink full of dishes. Because life goes on. Because Tim and I eat three times a day, and he washed up yesterday.
Because I'd rather spend hours working on homemade presents than extra hours at a minimum-wage job paying for store-bought presents.
Because a clean space is good for the body and soul.
Because ceremonies and holidays are significant for our species, and because pfeffernusse constitutes about half of "Christmas" in my memories.
Because I love to invent and create, because I love to be alone, because you must not feel guilty simply for being alive.