Upon reflection I probably shouldn’t have rearranged my bedroom furniture to the point of structural failure or been so focused on organization and décor, but I think the die was cast when my parents helpfully offered their opinion that I’d make a good housewife someday. A strange thing to say to a nine year old boy, yes, but nevertheless they said it. Strangely, it kind of came true.

Despite my eventual and all-too-long-in-the-making professional accomplishments in the design industry my salary remained a tangible reminder of the disparity between the arts and finance. My compensation remained a fraction of my partner’s finance industry income. But I drew a great deal of satisfaction from my work, and we were building a very nice life together. Actually, it was really nice. As the years progressed my partner became increasingly successful and, hence, busier. At the same time I was starting to get aggravated by my business partners (because they were aggravating) and hate my clients (because they were hateful). On top of that our life was getting increasingly complicated. We were acquiring things that took more time to care for. Not a bad thing, just a fact.

So I left my firm and took on just a few clients. When those projects ended I starting thinking about how the extra time I had made certain things possible’”nicer. I had been able to meet with contractors, source goods and services, bring decorating and organization to a new level. That got me thinking that managing our life could become a full-time position. It’s nothing new outside the LGBT community, but what did it mean inside it? Would I be stigmatized? I certainly am not handsome enough to be mistaken for a trophy anything. Well, maybe on a good day. But, seriously, how would I be perceived? What would it feel like to be dependent on my partner?

It was scary. It had never been how I saw my life evolving. It just happened; it made sense. We wanted to preserve our quality of life and not let the complexities of work and home erode it. So I became in charge of all things domestic, managing our two homes and taking care of things that my partner no longer had the time or inclination to do. After all, I was the self-proclaimed efficiency expert’”especially when it came to all things home. And isn’t a wonderful luxury to be in a position to be able to stay home? And don’t forget the die had been cast long ago.

So I threw myself whole hog into the role. I would be Martha Stewart (with the ability to lift heavier objects). So now there’s breakfast every morning. A nice one. I like to think I’m sandwiching my partner’s work life between two slices of home life. Delicious. Utopian. I think about what it’s like to come home after a hard day of work because I’ve been there. So there are low lights, scented candles and reduction sauces. I like nesting. He likes that I like nesting.

Even so, there are those times when the situation still feels awkward. When meeting with contractors or auto mechanics, for instance, they often take one look at our home or car and ask me what I do for a living, the implication being that I must be in a lucrative field to afford such things. Rather than saying, ‘œOh, I’m a homemaker. My spouse works in the financial services industry and I’m the fortunate recipient of his success,’ I tell them instead, ‘œI’m in design.’ I tried to justify misspeaking (isn’t that what politicians call it?) by blaming society for stigmatizing stay-at-home men. I wonder if they would have asked that if I was a woman. I wonder how many of these guys went home and encouraged their children to pursue a design career.

Then there’s what I’ve identified as my developing Aggressive Compulsive Disorder (ACD). My own construct, it’s what I describe as an ‘œinteresting’ hybrid neurosis that marries [the best] of passive aggression with obsessive compulsion. ACD leads to acts such as tearing off the newly set tile in the bathroom after the contractor has completed it (because I could have done it better). It gives me permission to empty my spouse’s junk drawer without asking or reorganizing his investment files. He can no longer find things because of newly implemented ‘œsystems.’ Things are alarmingly clean, clear, aligned, scented. I’m not certain if it’s territoriality, a new sense of entitlement or just the fact that I have the spare time to work on new neurosis. It’s probably a combination of all of those things, a byproduct of my new mandate.

The aggressive aspect of my ACD not only manifests itself in the execution of these things but in the demand that they be recognized and appreciated. Poor Jay is dragged (sometimes physically) through our home upon his return from work to view my latest work. He’s amazingly patient, grounded, loving, not of this world. He seems genuinely impressed with the newly organized (by color and pattern) sock drawers or the fact that I was able to realign all the 400 lb. planters on the terrace by using a 2×4 and sheer leverage.

I suppose these are pretty minor in the greater scheme of things. Taken in the context of a loving relationship where all parties understand the rules, it works. Maybe it’s like high heels. Something meant for another gender, a shoe seldom put on the other foot, so by virtue of that kind of interesting to try on.