As I schlep across the threshold into the new millennium, I ponder the question, “How far have women come?”

Having spent 24 years as a mental health professional, carefully observing and researching this topic, I have determined two things.

1. Everybody should be married to Bob.

2. This gender shtick is really confusing.

I try to find a balance, but I get caught up in conflict. For example, I kept my name twenty-two years ago when we got married. Yet when we go to vote, here’s what happens.

“Name and address?” the check-in person asks, and Bob gives his last name, which is Daly. When I say I’m at the same address but my last name is Perel, I always think it’s a knee-slapping riot to say, “But I swear we’re really married.” Now, I’m the only one who ever finds this funny. And that’s because I’m the only one who has an issue with it.

You see, I believe in one thing yet my psyche feels at odds. You could say I’m unbalanced I guess. But I suppose lots of women feel friction when they’re breaking away from the norm.

For instance, I’ve never shaved my legs. But frankly, the hair is so light that only people with their eyes two inches from my calves, i.e. my gynecologist, would see it. So it’s relatively easy for me to make this au naturale statement.

But I wear high socks when I see the gynecologist.

“Why are you wearing those?” Bob asked on the way to my last check-up.

“So the doctor doesn’t see my leg hair.”

“Why don’t you just shave?”

“Because hair is supposed to grow there. Men don’t shave their legs.”

Knowing me like he does, he always accepts this kind of answer in spite of its  idiotic logic.

I know I’ve divulged another quirk here. And that is -  Bob goes with me to my doctors’ appointments. Why does he do this? After all, I’m a grown-up.

The thing is . . .  my independence takes frequent nose dives. Like at car inspections, where I panic. They bark the instructions so quickly. When the mechanic wants me to test the brake lights, I’m afraid I’ll stomp on the accelerator instead and slam my car into the wall, or into the mechanic.

It helps when Bob is with me. Although he’s usually scared to death.

So I’ve got a yin/yang thing with dependency. But I’ve noticed my psyche doesn’t shout so loud to knock it off. Leaning on others isn’t always such a sin, is it?

My woman-in-progress conflict roster includes brassieres. There’s no good reason as to why women, other than joggers, need to wear them. Why on earth do breasts have to be up and out? I really would have thought that by the year 2000, bras would be out of the picture along with girdles, corsets and codpieces.

So I rarely wear a bra. But I keep one in the glove compartment just in

case  . . .  .

In case what? In case one of the million things I worry about actually occurs. This list always includes a car crash. I’d just have to put my bra on before the EMTs arrive.

The “in case” list also includes running into one of the many people I put into my ever-changing authority figure category, such as my in-laws, my ex-psychiatrist and my veterinarian. And I couldn’t possibly go bra-less to government places, like the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my license renewed. Who could do such a thing?

But I wonder - what does it matter if people can tell I’m not wearing a bra?

a) I’m not in style?

    Never been there. Never done that.

b) I’m flaunting my sexuality?

    I don’t know how to do that either.

It’s those psyche sirens again, commanding me to listen to what others have always told me is right.

The conflict goes further than the glove compartment. As Bob has noticed, I never go anywhere without things to carry in front of my chest, such as sunglasses, a magazine and a massive cluster of keys.

“Why don’t you just wear a bra instead of lugging around all that stuff?” Bob asked during our last Wellfleet walk, as I bent over to pick up the fallen keys while at the same time juggling the sunglasses and magazine.

“Because it’s more comfortable not wearing one.”

“Then why do you cover yourself up with all those things?”

“So no one will see I’m not wearing one.” We were walking along Mayo Beach. “You know, women shouldn’t have to walk around with a contraption that’s strapped around their breasts. If men were told to strap up their external organs, you think every male would be rushing out to buy a device that picks up and pushes out?”

“Of course,” he said.

Later, we were strolling down the main street. It was cold and drizzly, my favorite kind of winter day. Most of the galleries were closed, allowing the beauty of the old houses with their empty white porches to stand out and be noticed.

A fellow pulled up near the Lighthouse Restaurant. In the bed of his pick-up truck were waders, a rake, and a bucket of quahogs. As he walked past us, I smashed myself in the chest with my magazine and keys.

“You don’t go through any of this gender issue crapola,” I said to Bob as the drizzle got heavier. “How do you pull that off?” I took off his knitted cap, shook out the moisture and placed it back on his head.

“I think part of it is I don’t care what most other people think of me.”

“You said ‘most’. Whose opinion matters?”

“Just yours.” We walked further, heading back to the beach. “Which is really pretty stupid when I look at you carrying all that.”

After an hour’s ride home, Bob was too tired to cook dinner. So I offered to call the pizza place that delivers.

He set the table with my grandmother’s Passover china which we now use every day. He put out cloth napkins.

“Look at you.” I held up a napkin. “You’re the ultimate tradition-buster. You put cloth napkins out every night. You do all the laundry. You do all the cooking. You even do all the vacuuming.”

“First of all, that’s because you won’t do it, and second, I’ve always liked doing those things.”

I feigned a swoon and made a dreamy-eyed face. “I think you’re an exceptional male.”

“You know, for someone who’s so smart - ”

“Me?”

“Let’s be serious for one second if you can possibly do that.”

He picked up the napkin and folded it carefully before placing it by my plate.

“You don’t like it when people stereotype women, but you sterotype men. You should say I’m an exceptional person, not an exceptional male if that’s how you feel. The way you put it is prejudiced. If someone said you were an exceptional Jew, you’d start screaming, ‘What does that mean? As far as Jewish people go, I’m one of the good ones?’”

He was right. “Ok,” I said, “then you’re simply the most exceptional person in the galaxy. More comfy with that, oh man-o-mine?” I continued the swoon until I collapsed into the chair.

He finished setting the table and got the crystal wine glasses, which we used to keep tucked away in the not-supposed-to-use stack in the attic.

And so, later that night, we sat on the floor and watched the flames die down in the wood stove.

“I’m better at helping others than I am at helping myself,” I said, frustrated, as I got my mother’s old torn knitted comforter from the basket and placed it over Bob’s legs. “I haven’t come a very long way as far as the millennium goes.”

“Oh, but you have. You’ve got your own style, as quirky as it is. You should  be happy about that. Besides, I like your quirks.”

“Well that’s good. Because they’re multiplying like gnats.”

He knelt by the copper wood holder, picked out a large oak log and tore off some bark.

“I never feel in sync with the times,” I said.

“Everybody has conflicts when they try to make changes. That’s always a part of it.” He put the bark on the fire so a small flame would stay alive. Then he sat back down beside me. “You shouldn’t try to be like everyone else. If you feel better wearing the high socks, so what. In sync people aren’t usually thinking for themselves anyway.”

The last flicker illuminated his pretty face. “You may not be where you want to be,” he said, “but you’re giving it your best shot. And that, my favorite person in the whole world, is what counts.” I shivered, not because of the dwindling embers, but from the sweetness of the moment.

And he took the half of the comforter that wasn’t torn, and gently placed it over my legs.