“I had forgotten what my own boredom felt like,” she says. “It was luxurious.”
But if you take one thing from her, take this: The next time you feel your body go soft in the fluorescent light, do not apologize. Sit down. Let the tears come. Let the groceries wait.
Allison grew up in a house where her own mother, Diane, was a martyr of the highest order. Diane made her own yogurt. Diane ironed her husband’s boxer shorts. Diane volunteered for every bake sale, every field trip, every church potluck, and then collapsed into a glass of white wine every night at 8:47 PM, her eyes blank as two dimes.
But the private messages. Oh, the private messages.