My own worst enemy

I hate that I read this:

"I’ve got time to cook Robert’s favourite dishes, to lay the table and light scented candles. We adore travel and can take off at the drop of a hat,"  Laura Scott in The Daily Mail

And immediately thought, “oh, she’s making his dinner – how unliberated.” Which is, quite obviously, complete rot. I know nothing about their domestic situation (beyond their decision not to have children discussed in the article). Thus I’m completely unqualified to judge. As if who makes who dinner matters in the bigger scheme of things. As if I haven’t slaved over a hot stove (allowing for embellishments) whipping up previous partners’ preferred delights, feeling all aglow when I manage to pull it off.

Hell, I even regularly made one boyfriend’s lunch while he showered. It just made sense since I was usually ready in half the time it took him to scrub up and soap off. You know what? I enjoyed doing it so much I wrote about it in a poem. Confession No# 2 – I liked it better when he drove.

None of this has anything to do with whether or not my relationships have been balanced. I am annoyed to see myself slip into the same kind of behaviour I like to think I try hard to avoid. I should at least be glad I acted as my own umpire and ordered myself off to the sin bin for my five minutes of Think About What You Have Done.

I don’t know who I should be blaming for having such a predictable and depressing mental autocue, but I’m going to start with myself. Then I’m going to lump some leftovers between ‘the media’, my parenting (hello dominant mother), my degrees (here’s lookin’ at you UTS), and travel (patriarchal societies + winsome, idealistic feminist = many disgruntled looks).

*sigh* But really, I should know better.