Whenever I chat with some female colleagues at work and they complain about having to cook for their families every night, I simply cannot join in the bitch-session. After a few minutes of silence the inevitable question comes my way, where one of the superwomen turns to me and eagerly eggs me on by saying: “Don’t you agree?”
This after they’ve discussed in moronic detail about how difficult it is to rush home after work to try to prepare a quick meal for the family. I could actually picture it- an HR Executive, who at work is confident, composed and always in control, but after hours she is in a frantic panic, patent-leather designer handbag still slung over the shoulder as she takes out the half-defrosted value pack of chicken from the fridge. Her stilletto’s burning the balls of her feet, and the metal clasp digging into her sensitive flesh just below her ankle, but taking them off would waste too much time so she pushes through the pain. Whilst stir-fying up the remainder of her vegetables, she mentally runs through the nutritional information she googled on mushrooms and soya, and at last her husband saunters into the kitchen, kisses her on the cheek and says: “Something smells good, what’s for supper?”
But, NO, I cannot empathize, as my household is rather unconventional- then again, unconventional is the new conventional I suppose. It’s more like me who saunters into the house after work and asks: “What’s for supper?” When I reluctantly disclose this information I predictably get the “Oh you’re so lucky” response. So just because my husband cooks for me, I’m supposed to feel like the luckiest woman in the world? I beg to differ, women have been doing it for centuries and do their husbands ever turn round to one another and say, “Oh you’re a lucky guy!” – NO! That’s because it is expected. If your husband cooks for you, you’re supposed to be so thankful, and if the wife doesn’t then it is an abnormality. Did I miss something, or maybe society did, like the millennium. Hello!
This after they’ve discussed in moronic detail about how difficult it is to rush home after work to try to prepare a quick meal for the family. I could actually picture it- an HR Executive, who at work is confident, composed and always in control, but after hours she is in a frantic panic, patent-leather designer handbag still slung over the shoulder as she takes out the half-defrosted value pack of chicken from the fridge. Her stilletto’s burning the balls of her feet, and the metal clasp digging into her sensitive flesh just below her ankle, but taking them off would waste too much time so she pushes through the pain. Whilst stir-fying up the remainder of her vegetables, she mentally runs through the nutritional information she googled on mushrooms and soya, and at last her husband saunters into the kitchen, kisses her on the cheek and says: “Something smells good, what’s for supper?”
But, NO, I cannot empathize, as my household is rather unconventional- then again, unconventional is the new conventional I suppose. It’s more like me who saunters into the house after work and asks: “What’s for supper?” When I reluctantly disclose this information I predictably get the “Oh you’re so lucky” response. So just because my husband cooks for me, I’m supposed to feel like the luckiest woman in the world? I beg to differ, women have been doing it for centuries and do their husbands ever turn round to one another and say, “Oh you’re a lucky guy!” – NO! That’s because it is expected. If your husband cooks for you, you’re supposed to be so thankful, and if the wife doesn’t then it is an abnormality. Did I miss something, or maybe society did, like the millennium. Hello!
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