You know, I grew up confident that whenever (IF ever) I lived with a man I was not going to cook for him or do his laundry or tell him when to change his undershirts. Hell no. And I haven’t totally violated that promise… but I have realized that if I want him to fix my flat bike tires, reach things that are up high and change the furnace filters (which I do) I can’t really scream Equality! and leave his plate dirty in the sink and only wash mine without coming across as a spoiled princess (which I don’t want to).
So I fix the holes in his pockets, throw a handful of man-socks and underwear in the washer whenever I do a load and tell him to freaking change his shirt when our bed smells like locker room. I cook for him, but he cooks for me just as often. I know how to use thread and a needle, and I could teach him but A) it’s faster to do it myself and B) then he might come trying to teach my about oil filters and I seriously believe cars hate me and don’t want me to poke around in their guts.
I’m just as capable as he is to go to Wal-Mart and tell the mechanics man what to do with our car, and I do it. Just like he might as well be the one making brownies when he feels like having some, and he is. I wish he would pick up his crap from the floor. He probably wishes I would care to learn a little bit more about the car than where the key goes.
But it’s a compromise.
Not between me and my values, but between two people.
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