Now that I have your attention let me tell you that I have no interest in cooking whatsoever. Not now, not when I get married, not ever. Surely the idea of me drizzling honey on a stack of golden-brown pancakes on a bright sunday morning as my gorgeous husband who looks like a Calvin Klein model walks down the stairs in his plaid pajamas and kisses me on the nose sounds romantic, I’d rather just wake up in my bed looking like a zombie from ‘The Walking Dead’ while he brings me a fruit salad and a warm cup of green tea (no milk).
Even if he doesn’t and turns out to be just as lazy as me and useless as the first slice of bread at least he should have the common sense and basic courtesy to call room service and order hot breakfast. Mainly because I am always furious whenever someone wakes me up from my long, peaceful slumber. My mother understands my helplessness and wakes me up with the warmest smile and sweetest ‘Good Morning’, Dad on the other hand taps his knuckles on my head like I’m a box of Christmas presents. My brother doesn’t really wake me up, he just throws a glass of water on my face and pulls me out of ‘limbo’.
Coming back to the subject of food- I love eating, and I love people who love eating and I love people who can cook and I love people who I can eat (I should seriously stop watching Hannibal). But there is something about being inside the four walls of a kitchen, staring into a pot of boiling water, inches away from deadly fire that absolutely terrifies me. I admire people who can cook and I hate myself for being eighteen and still not being able to boil an egg. Why do I fear the mystical kitchen? I don’t know! Why I am so horrified with women who spent their whole life there? I have no idea! I just feel that once I get into the kitchen the orthodox society will grab me and pull me into this dark abyss of mandatory slavery and force me to spend my whole life cooking for a bunch of people who threat me like meaningless trash. They will bind me into their sweet words for compromising your dreams and sacrificing your happiness for those you love. Sometimes I feel terribly guilty for my selfishness and sometimes I am ashamed of myself for being downright ridiculous. But I am genuinely petrified of living a life where no one knows who I am and what I am capable of doing.