Weak women have always annoyed me. My brothers used to get mad at me, for yelling at some ditz on TV who wasn’t smart enough to smash her attacker with that lamp she just put her hand on, or to bring her knee up and run like hell while he was still on the floor. I call them wimpy-whinys, and I stay as far away as possible. They give us a bad name.
Today I wish I could be one. Why can’t I waste away and die of a broken heart? Why can’t I have a nervous breakdown and spend some time coloring pretty birds in a padded room? Why do I have to go on?
Because of Hope, that’s why. And because I’m not like that anyway. Not to mention the vultures are still circling, watching for the slightest hint I can’t take care of my baby.
But it sure doesn’t feel right to be going to work and cleaning house and paying bills, either. How can I just go on with my life? Why hasn’t the world ground to a halt?