"A shadow of my former self."

I've said it often, mostly in jest, in reference to a life post-employment. I won't spit the bit about living in a world where we're tricked into defining ourselves by our career- that track is played out. Still, it's how we play. Even when, for a moment, we figure out how not to define ourselves this way (or at the very least, use language suggesting otherwise), our occupation becomes shorthand when the philosophical answer is just too lengthy or as an obligatory eke at parties ("What do I do? I hug! I dance in the mirror! Oh, professionally....I'm in advertising")

Then one day, you aren't. You aren't what you are. You're what you used to do. What you had been doing. So for awhile, I felt like a dark afterthought. Unequal proof that something brighter may once have been there- full of color and specific form. Something now much murkier, distinguishable but nebulous, decidedly irresolute.

I don't feel like a shadow anymore, but lately, like a soft glow. I mean, its better but it isn't Better. Pleasant but kind of pointless, and lacking in energy. Enough to comfort, perhaps warm, but little to invigorate, and God forbid you need to photosynthesize anything. I've become increasingly domestic, which is great, except that I never imagined caring that the dishes were done would come at the the high expense of having little else to concern myself with. I cook fresh meals at home, scour the farmer's market (between shopping and food prep you can kill half a day!) and work out religiously. I cleaned the bathroom the other day and thought up no less than five witty Facebook status messages extolling my triumph.

Glowing, sure, but feeling dim. Existing in the bench-press-crockpot territory between Arnold Swarznegger and Betty Friedan.

One-man production of "The Feminine Mystique." Coming to a stage near you.