On allergens & masculinity.
After days of that muted fatigue particular to women in motion — the kind that builds not from illness but accumulation — I woke with energy. Ironically, my sleep had been poor. I’ve begun to observe a frustrating pattern: the less I rest, the more I move. Perhaps this is biological, perhaps it’s defense.
By 8:30 a.m., I was at Barre. A stellar class — my hip held up. Afterwards, I found myself doing something I never imagined I would do deliberately: shopping for hypoallergenic bedding.
Let me be precise. This was not for me. My promised has been suffering — dander, mites, allergic misery. Likely the result of my two cats, who have taken over every domestic surface, including his own bed. I thought, naïvely, that finding clean, simple, high-quality cotton would be an easy errand. It was not.
What I found instead was aisle after aisle of polyester — plush, fuzzy, fragrant, artificial. Blankets as synthetic performance. Easy wash. Anti-wrinkle. Not a thread of authenticity in sight. (Mind you, this was TJ max)
This is when the resentment began.
Not at the polyester. Not even at the prices. But at the softness. At the need for softness. At my promised's sensitivity — as if it were a flaw in his masculinity. I thought: he would not survive the apocalypse.
I often have this thought. I mock him with it. I was raised with hardness — not intentionally, but circumstantially. We used what we had. The blankets of my childhood were heavy, synthetic, often emblazoned with religious iconography, Virgin Mary wrapped me to sleep many nights. Polyester and cheap, always, but they worked and lasted years. Our ancestors used animal pelts and woven grass for warmth and survival, for christ sakes!
And to now stand in a well-lit department store, squinting at thread counts and cotton ratios — it felt absurd. And what's worse is, beneath my scoffing was fear that one day, my child might need such things. Hypoallergenic bedding. Special pillows. A child of MINE? What kind of child would I raise? Not a wolf. A weakling.
But then - the guilt. Because of course I want my child to have softness. Of course I want them to wake in clean sheets and know the comfort of a home designed to prevent suffering, not condition one to it. But I am afraid. Not of tenderness, but of weakness. I want to raise someone strong — and I do not yet know how to reconcile strength and softness. They have always seemed at odds.
The truth is this, as I so often forget: I am no longer in survival mode.
And so I bought the bedding. 100% cotton sheets and blankets. Hypoallergenic pillow protectors. Even a mostly-cotton pet bed. I washed it all before use — hot water, sensitive detergent. But even that felt indulgent, a sort of debauchery. The thought emerged: What a waste of water, electricity, time...survivalist thoughts telling me I have no right to use resources freely.
But I do..and I am learning that to care for others — to create comfort, to choose softness, to make things better, not just endurable — is not weakness. It is the end of the war in me. Or at least a ceasefire..I shall enjoy it while I can.
Now the washer churns. The bedding spins. The allergens, theoretically, drown.
And if it doesn’t work? I will shave the cats. Or, more likely, find a way to blame the dog.