As the age old saying goes, it's much easier to please yourself than to please everyone around you. In that spirit of self-empowerment, I've decided to retire another version of myself running parallel to my one true self.  The role that I can no longer sustain is that of the doting housewife. Just as thousands of woman waited patiently for the return of their husbands in those 1950's representations of Americana, I have sat at a checkered table, in a sunburst yellow kitchen watching the oven timer as my brownies rise to a chocolately perfection. Except my husband isn't working at the power plant or post office or any of the other blue collar professions that promised his return at 5:03 p.m. sharp.  My husband is a man who is too lazy, too afraid to take extra steps to keep me in his life. It's been hard to watch the color of the kitchen change from sunburst yellow to steel gray as the decades progress, and the return of my partner seems as hopeless as the end of a senseless war. But at the end of the day, regardless of the year, I am frozen in time; in a place that leaves no room for new beginnings.  As familiar and effortless as it is to hold on to the hope of his return, I have to rise from my seat at the kitchen table and walk straight through to the front door. And if I pass him on my way from the door, down the street to the highway, it might be too late for me to turn around and warm his dinner, or rub his feet.  Despite the threat of sounding like a bitter feminist, I can't help but notice that my new resolutions all fall under once category: freedom from grasps of so-called men. Even the strongest of women fall prey to the comforting embrace of a man's favor, so much so they cannot feel the embrace grow cold, spiteful or indifferent.  From now on, I will take any promises from a man with a grain of salt, knowing that one day those promises could manifest into lies.