I just answered the door in sweats and pink fuzzy socks, with a dish towel over one shoulder because I’d been washing lunch dishes. I have a feeling that my hair was tangled, as I don’t remember brushing it this morning, but I’m afraid to look. I signed for the packages (hurrah for holiday consumerism) and then realised how I must have looked: like a housewife. Like someone who doesn’t get up and go to a damn job every day.
I mean, I actually do. I have a freelance business that, while it definitely doesn’t keep us in champagne and whatever weird things people more affluent than I eat, still brings in some money. I work twelve-hour days, I work weekends. I still feel guilty. Isn’t that odd?
I’ve been the breadwinner most of my adult life, and I’ve held some relatively highpowered jobs. I managed projects worth millions and large teams of people. I held videoconference meetings with people all over the world. I was on the board of directors for a social media startup. I dressed like a grown-up in suits and skirts and heels. Sometimes I even wore pantyhose.
I try to remind myself that I am not my mother. Even if I work from home I still have a job and the services that I provide are valuable. I have a mind…even if there is no one but the cats to talk to during the day.
Yep, me and my bunny socks. Working away.