Seriously. I think I may be the worst feminist in the history of feminism. Sure, I talk the talk: Leave my body alone! Equal pay for equal work! Just because I dress like this doesn’t mean you can take advantage!

And yet I squeal and run to my husband when I see a spider. I’m literally terrified of driving in the city. A few months ago, when Mr. E was out of town and our kitchen sink sprung a leak, I took to Facebook in a panic with a “WHAT DO I DOOOOOO???” post, complete with pictures.

Luckily, my kitchen floor was saved by a college friend, who is an über-feminist. Along with instructions to consult YouTube (because that’s how she learned to install two sinks in her house), her parting reply was: “Unless [Mr. E] has actual experience, is appreciably smarter than you, or you need more muscle than you have for the job, he’s not any more equipped than you are for this.”

Paint SwatchesShe’s the feminist I’ve always imagined myself to be.

Fast forward three months, and I’m sitting here in my new home office (I work from home now), a gallon of freshly mixed, minty green paint at the ready, and I’m kinda sorta paralyzed.

I did really well at first; I confidently decided I wanted a green room. I said that we’d call my office the “green room” like where they put celebrity guests before they appear on a talk show. I picked out color samples. I pinned the cards to the wall.

I even went out and got actual paint samples. I actually painted little tester squares onto the walls. Multiple times. I cleaned the brushes myself afterwards. I even started putting the painter’s tape around the edges of the ceiling and door casings last night. I went out early this morning and bought a whole gallon of the Chosen Color.paint supplies

(I’m telling you all of this in excruciating detail so you don’t think I’m a total loser when you continue reading.)

I bought drop cloths, because don’t you need those when you’re painting? I needed Mr. E to go into our storage and get our painting supplies, because I don’t know where he keeps them. I just realized that I’m going to need to take off the light switch and outlet covers, and I don’t know where he keeps the screwdriver.

The freakin’ screwdriver.

And now I’m stuck.

I don’t know how to proceed, and to be completely honest, I had to Google the part of the door I was talking about taping last night. Casings. (I thought it was “jamb.” At least I knew there was a freakin’ “b” at the end.) And this container of “all purpose joint compound” that Mr. E brought in from storage? I have absolutely no idea.

joint compound

When did I become this helpless? I painted my entire bedroom, baseboards to ceiling, when I was in high school. By college I could change a flat tire and do an oil change if I needed to. And now I’m the girl who stalls out after the paint sample-picking part and makes sure to have her AAA card with her whenever she goes out? How did this happen? Who am I?

chair cornerLet’s face it: I’ve become entirely too dependent on Mr. E. I default to his judgment far too often. So much so that my brain doesn’t know how to process doing simple things for myself anymore. If he were to disappear, and I were left to fend for myself, I’d be paralyzed with self doubt. I’m so embarrassed. I officially suck at feminism.

And I’d definitely be the first to die in the Hunger Games. Or the zombie apocalypse. Or, apparently, if I had to drive into the city for a doctor appointment.

Well, eff this. And by eff, I of course mean:

Let’s feminist this shit.

I don’t care if I get paint all over the carpet and my clothes and my hair and my face and show up to work tomorrow looking like a seasick Smurf. I am going to do this by myself. I am going to reclaim my feminism, one brush stroke at a time. Or maybe one roller roll at a time? I’m still not sure.

But I’ll figure it out.