Martha

I wouldn't say that I'm afraid of Martha. It's just a combination of dread, disgust and a guilt. As I dig in the dirt in my backyard, attempting to eradicate the weeds growing beneath my Charlie-Brown-fir tree, I feel eerily close to her. I fantasize about pink shovels, colorful flowerbeds, and organic meals cooked literally with the fruits of my labor. My thoughts venture into maternal territory as I allow myself to wonder what it would be like for my Type A personality to stay at home and care for the domestic aspects of me and my partner's life.

The sheets - ironed.
The grout in the bathroom – mildew-free.
The garden – luscious.

It sounds amazing and awful at the same time. All of these things, which sound so nice, are now fashionable. Yet they betray my education, upbringing, and promise to keep my last name. I was taught that I could do anything and that I should never settle. And at some point, "settle down" and "settle" became synonymous and I haven't been able to let go of the stigma. Facing this intersection of lifestyles, I'm appalled by the thought of following Martha, yet petrified by what I might be giving up if I don't.