The Personal Is the Political

It's an old feminist maxim I didn't grasp at first, but now I do, and with all ten digits. I trust your intelligence enough that I'm not going to explain it to you. Suffice it to say we're not in a freshman Women's Studies course, getting excited about the idea that Mom *and* Dad handle the housework together (and we should all be mortified that in December 2004, this idea can be news to anybody). I'm interested at the moment in my own internal conflicts about austerity and materialism, independence and security, and the three-day headache in my left eye that makes me wonder if I should overreact and call the doctor rather than stuff myself full of sinus medicine.

What do I want? After a month of thinking about it, I still don't know. I expect to know, since I always knew before what I wanted: to write well. That was fine for the presumed first half of my life. I've written well; now I'm lucky I can still type. Details aside, what do I want to do?