No, Really, I Want to Be in the Kitchen Today

Wait wait — before you take away my Feminist card — hear me out.

I think it’s great that everybody is offering to help me prepare, and clean up after, this huge feast today — my husband first and foremost (which is only fitting, as he is the one responsible for all the meal planning, shopping, and cooking around here, usually).

But today? For a big holiday meal, with guests, and many hours of hanging around and playing games and snacking and visiting and sipping wine and talking and visiting and more talking…today I really, really want to be in the kitchen.

It me.

You know this about me, beloved ones; if you just think about it, you’ll understand what I mean. You gave me a pair of Introvert Socks just this morning, after all. Everyone laughed, knowingly; I did too, gratefully.

I’m wearing them now. They’re very cozy, and validating.

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Being an introvert in a group of extroverts is — well, I like it a whole lot better than I used to, before I learned these words, and learned which one of them I am. In my childhood, up through my twenties and even into my early thirties, I just thought I was weird, or fussy, or shy, or some other way of feeling wrong. Broken.