Last night while folding laundry, I had a mundane yet alarming revelation. It was as if I could suddenly see myself from the perspective of the outside world. "Oh my god," I thought. "I am doing Nick's laundry!"
This struck me as funny and absurd for a few reasons. For one thing, I recently wrote a bile-filled article called "Women's Work: On the Female Habit of Scrubbing a Noncommittal Dude's Toilet in a Desperate Attempt to Secure a Commitment." In this article, I came down harshly on women who bustle around doing housework for their lazy, one-foot-out-the-door boyfriends.
I guess maybe my situation is different--after all, I managed to trap Nick into marriage, so it's probably appropriate for me to do my fair share of the housework at this point. It's not as if Nick doesn't do anything, either.
Maybe what it comes down to is that it just doesn't feel cool to do housework. Think about someone you find insanely attractive. Now think about them hunched over their bed, matching their socks and folding them into little shapes and putting them away in a drawer. Pretty much kills the romance before it started, right?
Conclusion: I really don't mind doing the laundry. However, if I'd been born male, I probably would've stayed "single" my entire life and taken advantage of that handy female cleaning compulsion.
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