You know, I could get all screechy here and give you an earful about the harditudes of womanhood, lay a big screed on you about having
to go out to work so our families can have food on the table and then having to come home and engineer domestically with massive organisational awesomeness cos chances are that if you’re a woman partnered with a man, you do a whole lot more of the household mangement stuff, so conceivably you could be putting in 40 hours a week at work and then another 20 or 30 dealing with the house and the kids, and if you’re a woman partnered with no one then obviously you gotta deal with the whole enchilada of life, 24/7, so probably the best thing workload-wise would be to hook up with another woman so that maybe, just maybe, you could achieve something roughly resembling an equal division of household labour, but I digress … so yeah, anyway, on top of all that, you’re also supposed to look like either a porn star or a supermodel and remember: 50 is the new 30 by which logic 40 is the new 20 and 30 is the new 10 and, like, holy HELL! that’s a lot of pressure and also really really creepy, and good lawdy, Miss Claudy, no matter how much you sand and scrape me, plane and polish me, I’m not going to look like anything other than a 48-year-old lady, size regular, because it’s just too goddam much work to have to pretend to be something I’m not and seriously, people, I have enough real work to do all day, every day, in my life, for the love of Mike (and who, exactly, is this Mike I supposedly love, anyway?).
Anyhow, here’s wishing all you industrious dames out there a happy and labour-free Labour Day. And, cos I’m a softie, all you nice hard-working mens too.