An independent woman

I always tell myself and many others who are interested in knowing, that I am an independent woman. Or, rather, I used to be, when I worked full time and earned a decent salary. I went to work at what seemed to be the crack of dawn, came home at the dead of night, was wonderfully tired and ate all the wrong things and finally quit when I had more problems than I wanted to deal with at the time. Having got myself sorted out both physically and mentally, I now need to start seriously considering going back to work somewhere, but without the - greatly self-induced, I have to admit - trauma of the last experience. And, along with it, go back to the vestige of independence I so fondly believed I had at the time that my bank account got regular inputs and I bought lipstick without thinking about whether it suited me and I needed another shade of red that was not ideal for my skin tone. I battled with work in the office, work in the house and work to keep myself sane and afloat, without ever realising that I was doing none of the above with 1) any degree of efficiency and/or organisation and 2) no help at all.

Ok, having dealt out that double negative with masterly nonchalance and confused anyone who may be reading this and myself, let me explain...

AT HOME: My biggest source of support and strongest ally is Father. He not only manages all the money and all of us (himself, Small Cat and me), but also manages the home without letting me feel in the slightest way that I am not the one in charge. I do look after the culinary functions in the kitchen, but more because I like cooking than because I need to do the cooking, if you know what I mean. The maid looks after the dishes and the floors, though on occasion we need to do that ourselves - meaning that she plays hookey for longer than planned and while I am out at the gym or gallivanting in town, Father cleans up. The driver manages parking our car when he is available to drive us/me around, which at the moment is a bit of a sore point with us, since he too has decided to play hookey and gone awol. Of course, both Father and I drive pretty well, but have made a conscious decision not to need to, or to have to find space in our overcrowded city to park with the assurance that all the bits and pieces on our car will be there when we come back to it.

AT WORK: The only pleasure in being a wage slave, apart from the regular paycheck, is that someone else can call the shots. When decision-making is in your own power, it is a lot more fun, but considering the way that media works today and the fact that no-one that I know that works in media is in the best-fit position, it is generally the norm that you are directed by someone else with greater powers (though perhaps not intelligence or qualifications) than you have. In other words, most people follow orders, which makes it easier in a way, albeit a right royal pain in the somewhere impolite. So any ideas that you may have about being independent are best left where they belong, in a wonderful dreamscape that never really happens in reality.

So how does that, or did that, since the AT WORK part is now history - all of the above, I mean - make me an independent woman? Blast, another bubble burst there!