I just packed a suitcase for a man. I've never done that before, and I think the entire experience, rated now after the fact, was somewhere on the sliding scale between totally rewarding and slightly irritating.
Now, don't get me wrong. I enjoy doing nice things for this man, and he definitely deserves the kindness and emotes just the right amount of gratitude to make it worth doing. He is ever so gentlemanly, insistent that I don't NEED to do these things for him, but I actually get pleasure out of being this sickeningly domestic.
For the record, he's doing the dinner dishes right now. I know. Fantastic.
No, my irritation comes from the fact that it took us (two brains, four hands) all of seven and a half minutes to make it all happen. That elapsed time counts trying on two questionable fashion choices and going back into the maze of built-in closet drawers for replacement options. AND ridiculing one terrible shirt in the closet and secretly hiding it towards the back, hoping to never see it again.
Frankly, as much as I love my wardrobe, and its collection of accessories, jewelry, handbags, belts, tops, jackets, skirts, pants, cropped pants, lightweight sweaters, heavy winter gear, lazy-day track suits, hoodies, sweatshirts, hats, and a wide assortment of shoes (I'm not Imelda Marcos, but I may be her distant cousin), I came to a painful realization.
It is just so much EASIER to be a man.
I know. I'm 31 and I'm just NOW coming to this conclusion. Bear with me. I only recently mastered the art of mixing cocktails and beer in one evening. Just barely.
He's going to Vegas on a sales reward trip. I'll be here crossing things off my eternal to-do list. I'm not quite sure who will have more fun. Vegas oddsmakers predict a tie.
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