Part of my experimentation with my new neighborhood involved trying a new place for a mani-pedi. This didn't come with a small amount of apprehension; a good mani-pedi place is hard to find.
I got comfortable in my chair, settling into the warm pool of water at my feet. An Asian man--not older than 35--lifted my right hand.
"What shape?"
"Short and square," I replied.
"This color on your hands and feet?" he asked, holding up the bottle of deep red that I had picked out when I walked in.
"Please."
I watched this man study my cuticles and start trimming away at my nails. This was most certainly a first for me--having a man give me a mani-pedi. I've seen more men come to salons to receive services, but never had I seen a man giving them before.
I noticed my judgements: Can this guy do a good job? Will he bungle the polish? I watched him work, when normally I would sit back and zone out.
But why would a man who's trained to give manicures do a bad job? This incident made me think about work, and more specifically, women's work versus men's work. What kind belongs to whom anymore?
____________________________________________
I hand H-band a piece of notebook paper with a list of tasks.
"For the week," I say to him, dubious that he would internalize my requests.
"Yep, thanks."
"What are you doing today?"
"Got some work out back, some shopping, and a call at lunchtime," he says.
I'm uneasy with his answer, "But what about the list? When will you get to the list?"
I wonder if, since leaving his company, he'll be efficient with his time, or productive. When we both worked full-time we divided tasks accordingly: He did household tasks like the dishes and most of the cooking. I paid the bills and planned things like travel and dinner parties. I gravitated toward things in the future; he handled things as they came up. Now he was taking on everything at home: the immediate, the planned, and, when the baby comes, the primary caregiving.
I remind myself that he's good at this. I come home, and he's made dinner. I know that with our daughter he will do what comes naturally and keep her safe, fed, and loved. But I can't help myself: I plan.
I got comfortable in my chair, settling into the warm pool of water at my feet. An Asian man--not older than 35--lifted my right hand.
"What shape?"
"Short and square," I replied.
"This color on your hands and feet?" he asked, holding up the bottle of deep red that I had picked out when I walked in.
"Please."
I watched this man study my cuticles and start trimming away at my nails. This was most certainly a first for me--having a man give me a mani-pedi. I've seen more men come to salons to receive services, but never had I seen a man giving them before.
I noticed my judgements: Can this guy do a good job? Will he bungle the polish? I watched him work, when normally I would sit back and zone out.
But why would a man who's trained to give manicures do a bad job? This incident made me think about work, and more specifically, women's work versus men's work. What kind belongs to whom anymore?
____________________________________________
I hand H-band a piece of notebook paper with a list of tasks.
"For the week," I say to him, dubious that he would internalize my requests.
"Yep, thanks."
"What are you doing today?"
"Got some work out back, some shopping, and a call at lunchtime," he says.
I'm uneasy with his answer, "But what about the list? When will you get to the list?"
I wonder if, since leaving his company, he'll be efficient with his time, or productive. When we both worked full-time we divided tasks accordingly: He did household tasks like the dishes and most of the cooking. I paid the bills and planned things like travel and dinner parties. I gravitated toward things in the future; he handled things as they came up. Now he was taking on everything at home: the immediate, the planned, and, when the baby comes, the primary caregiving.
I remind myself that he's good at this. I come home, and he's made dinner. I know that with our daughter he will do what comes naturally and keep her safe, fed, and loved. But I can't help myself: I plan.
"When will you call the insurance people?" I ask. "Will you hang the pictures today?" "Who are you meeting with today?" I want to make sure he really wants to do this. And I have to ensure he's structured, that he's in movement, that he still thinks of his future.
I need to watch him work because I question his instincts in this realm, even when they are more highly honed than my own.
