I feel sorry for my husband.
Not because the first time he'll see me wearing glasses, with no makeup, it will probably be too late.
Not because I'm capable of getting lost in my own neighborhood, and anyone relying on my map reading skills is sure to get led astray.
Not even because I'm a secret blogger, and as one commenter put it "won't your husband mind you sharing personal details of your life". (More on the blogging when married topic another time).
No, all that he'll be aware of on dates. I began to feel sorry for my future husband, really and truly sympathetic, when I cleaned out the family refrigerator on Erev Shabbos.
I filled a garbage bag with rotting vegetables and decaying dairy products. I scooped out chunks of solidified pasta, prepared for dinners long gone, and piled high in the sink their former containers. I used up an entire roll of paper towel, scrubbing weeks of acquired gunk off the shelves. I wouldn't have done it, I would have left the sorry situation as is, and tried hard to ignore it, if not for the specific request (well, demand) of the mistress of the house.
Let's face it, I'm a lousy housewife. And it's genetic.
I can cook and bake. I can do laundry and fold and iron. I can wash floors.
I can do it all, but I don't. Other things always seem more interesting, or more important. Yes aesthetics are important, and certainly hygiene and nutrition are. But hey, I'm busy here, I have a career to take care of. I have books to read, blogs to write. People to call. What's a house in the scale of things?
I tell myself that when I'm married it will be different. I'll have my own home. I'll be doing it for my husband, who I'll love and want to make happy. I'll be doing it for my family. I'll be a perfect housewife. In moments of honesty though, when surrounded by piles of crumpled clothes, or mounds of moldy dishes, I doubt it. We don't change overnight.
I try to warn them. The boys I date. "You know, when it comes to cleaning and stuff, I'm not so great." They hear, they nod, they reassure. They don't care. They are looking for other things. The girl next door, the perfectly brought up domestic marvel, well, she's dull. I win hands down.
They don't realize they are sacrificing a life of creature comforts, if they marry me. They are giving up pristine countertops and fridges stocked with labeled Tupperware. Sacrificing ironed linen and home baked culinary creations. Entering a haphazard home universe fraught with mess and misadventure. For what? For me?
Yes, I feel sorry for him all right.
1 week ago