The Demise of my Domesticity

I used to be quite domestic. I prided myself in setting a beautiful table, making impressive recipes from scratch, decorating my home… but now? Now, I’ve never once sat at my dining room table, I own one tiny skillet, one tiny 2-quart saucepan and no muffin tins, still haven’t hung pictures in my apartment after moving in 5 months ago, never make my bed, much less use pillow shams, and I honestly cannot remember the time I washed dishes.  Somehow I’ve regressed. Most people eat cereal out of re-used take-out containers, don’t have a single table linen and have refrigerators filled with more beer than food when they’re in college or right after, not when they’re 28.

When I look back on that domesticated life I once had, I’m a tiny bit nostalgic and I think I want to be that way again… some day. 24-year-old me would’ve shaken her finger at 28-year-old me for living like this. But come to think of it, 24-year-old me was wound just a bit too tight and she didn’t know much about having fun.

I don’t know if it’s because I moved out of the South and away from alleged societal pressures to be the perfect housekeeper and hostess or because I’ve finally started living fully. I’m busy now. I don’t have to fill my empty evenings with table linen shopping  or wreath making because my evenings are full. Full of lively, fun activities I really enjoy. Full of good, deep, true friendships. Full of writing and working towards a career I actually dream about.

So, I won’t mourn the demise of my domesticity. I’ll just get super rich and hire a housekeeper to be domestic for me.

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