The beginning of wisdom is: Acquire wisdom; and with all your acquiring, get understanding.
When I clean, cook, or wear an apron, I feel like a housewife. Probably if you have done these activities, you have felt domestic as well (or else harassed by somebody feeling domestic). And despite all the respect I hold for housewives everywhere, I instinctively recoil at the thought of a friend or stranger labeling me “housewife.” I deny it vehemently, like Peter on the night Jesus was betrayed—three times I say, “I know no such label.” Call me student, call me nerd, call me academic, call me outdoorsy, call me overly diligent, call me perfectionist, call me friend, daughter, sister, obsessed, overachiever, writer, blogger, even lazy, lackadaisical, loony. Just don’t call me a housewife, don’t think of my bathroom-scrubbing activities as domestic, don’t look at my love of baking as sweetly feminine. I can’t stomach the idea of being a housewife; never could, not from the first time Eric Mill told me two years ago that by decorating the apartment with crepe paper I was behaving “like a housewife.”