Undomesticated

I don't like cleaning. I especially don't like cooking. I have always been an organized person and my apartment certainly isn't a disaster, but I just don't have any natural inclination towards domestic activities. I can shoot a gun, change the oil in my car, do 30 push-ups and change a tire. But I'll be damned if I can cook more than a pot of spaghetti. Mostly because I don't want to.

I have been cooking as much as possible recently. Trying to revive any remaining morsel of domestic ability within me. I've had a handful of successful meals recently and the ones I've made more than once are getting better every time. Still, I have the feeling I will more likely be the sports fan, bread winner and disciplinarian in my relationship.

I'm pretty sure Al is OK with this. In fact, I think he enjoys cooking and he certainly doesn't want to yell (outside of work, that is). I know he's OK with my success and future-earning-potential. (Correct me if I'm wrong, babe.)

I used to think if I could cook and be more demure I could "catch myself a husband." I think my grandmother has said just those words to me. Now, I'm in a relationship where those roles are shared a lot more than I ever expected. And if I chose demure over my stubborn, opinionated and loud-mouth self, I wouldn't be me.

And "me" is the woman he fell in love with. "Me" doesn't have to do the dishes.