Feminist?

It seems like just yesterday when I was standing in a group of about 2oo other women, holding hands and banners and walking the streets in protest. We were supposedly "taking back the night", a feminist effort put together to lessen the frequency of rape and crimes in the wee hours towards women on our college campus.
I remember feeling sort of awkward. I remember thinking this might be the beginning of many a protest. This might be the start of my feminist self. This might be the point in life when I channeled Gloria Steinem and began to speak from pulpits with passion. It really was none of those. Except awkward. The protest wasn't really my thing. I didn't really care for the "group" mentality. I didn't care for the loudness. I couldn't stand the stares. I figured it would be more up my alley to write a letter to the paper. Which I never did.
I never gave up on the idea I was a feminist, I just chose to not make it an issue, I suppose. And as I wheeled my cart out of the grocery store and into the lot, I wondered if I looked like a feminist. With my white jacket and purple purse and my pregnant belly, and cart full of foods. I wondered if I was still a feminist. In a flash I reviewed my self and thought of the one hundred percent conformity in my life to everything traditional with surprising ease.
I like it that my husband puts gas in my car for me. I like it that he doesn't have me get beer as the liquor store is "no place for a lady". I like having my nails done and shopping all day and wearing cute heels. I like complaining that I "had to change my name". I like it that my husband starts my car in the mornings so that I don't have to be exposed to the elements for too long. I like to begrudgingly clean the house and mumble to myself that I am the one always cleaning the house. It seems as far as feminism is concerned, I jumped ship the second my husband and I started divvying up the parts around here.
I suppose I could argue that if I WANTED to be the one that took on some traditionally male roles, I could. I could take out the trash and manage the recycling and trade that with the grocery shopping. But for what? So we were both miserable doing our chores? I could give up on my female looks and wear birks and tees and cut-off denim, but that sounds like hell, too. Nor am I remotely interested in participating in any more of those ridiculous protests.
The bottom line is that I am happy doing whatever it is I am doing. I don't really care how it looks or what the label is- as long as we have our well-oiled machine in working order around here.