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A guy recently said of me, “I would never date you. You are far too independent. Opinionated. And sophisticated.”

I sat staring at him, watchful of my own response as heaven forbid we add (the reality of) argumentative into that equation.

“These are the good things about me,” I declared. “Just wait until you see the flaws!”

 

I am often mistaken for a feminist. I have an affinity with fine footwear so it can’t possibly be my wardrobe, despite the fact that I am quite the androgynous dresser. Yet, I will never be burning bras or embracing double-thread stockings. Because, even beyond the superficial, I am not a feminist. Yet I have a deep respect for the effort employed by my female ancestors. They did the hard work and I have absolutely no problem being waited on. Especially if my hard work is going to pay the bill.

 

I am not even an equalist. I am a realist.

 

However, what has shocked me is that in this day and age, there are actually men out there who believe that it is a negative thing for a woman to be independent.

The notion that maybe all women “shouldn’t” have left the kitchen was reiterated to me at work.

“My oven broke down last night,” Orlando said to me over lunch while he ate McDonalds. I didn’t respond. “My oven broke down last night,” he repeated.

“Oh, I heard you. I just really couldn’t care less.”

He actually laughs at my undomesticated-ness. And has done since I laughed so hard that a little pee came out when he revealed that he was ecstatic for receiving a vacuum cleaner for his birthday.

“This is an emergency,” he said in between fries.

“No, I would call it a relief.”

“What is my girlfriend going to cook tonight?”

“Isn’t that what a microwave is for? Or maybe a restaurant?” I ignored his feminine innuendo, justifying that as his girlfriend is a professional chef, she probably does make the best Two Minute Noodles in the household.

“When was the last time you used an oven?” He questioned.

I tried to remember. “I think we had one in London.”

 

I can’t cook. I can’t (won’t) clean. I buy new clothes instead of doing laundry every week. And I once sprayed my dog with Estee Lauder’s Beyond Paradise instead of giving him a bath.

One Hollywood actress recently said, in an interview, “Women are either good in the kitchen or good in bed.”

I can’t stress enough how capable I am of burning soup. But, then again, some like it Hot.

 

But is this how it is? Have I been completely oblivious to the fact that You can’t be Whoever you want? Rather you are segregated within the gender to which you were born?

I can’t imagine that a (valuable) employer would dismiss me because I am strong (or a woman), so why would a man?

Oh. That’s right. No law suit involved in romantic rejection.

I took the question to my source of all Fucked Up Man Problems, Dani.

“Isn’t the best way to a man’s heart through his stomach?” She said.

I wondered. I am single. And I have given a boyfriend food poisoning from cooking him macaroni and cheese.

“But what about all of that bullshit about men only being able to think about sex? Surely that has to count for something? Do we literally have no power?”

“You would think,” she scoffed. “But I’ve literally tried that route. And no, we don’t.”

 

Damn, I thought. I’m really going to have to think of a new trick.

 

AM is my guiding light of how to make a relationship work while being opinionated and useless with a wok. It somewhat pains me think that my mother is a horrible cook. However, my parents have been married for twenty-eight years. Shudder.

“There are a lot of very weak guys out there,” she told me over a glass of wine and Chinese take-away.

“Well, I refuse to change.” I reheated my rice in the microwave.

Add ‘stubborn’ to my personal ad.