Time To Woman Up.

Husband and I come from two very different places when it comes to food. First of all, I was raised vegetarian and when I met my Husband I had never eaten a real hamburger. Or pepperoni. And definitely never a hot dog, shrimp, crawfish, or lobster. 

I don’t eat chicken with skin on it. I don’t eat pork. I refuse to eat any meat with bones in it. None of this is a religious thing, it’s a finicky thing. I’m not picky at all about food except when it comes to meat. I kind of don’t like it that much. Husband loves it, like eats-his-steak-rare loves it.

After we began our relationship, I tried all of the foods I listed above. Because I was in love with him. That’s the only reason. Some of them (hot dog) were awful. Some were okay (pepperoni). I can do without all of them, but I did try them. And to be fair, he had never eaten anything remotely healthy before I came into his life, and he tried tofu and veggie meat because he was in love with me and probably because he wanted to get in my pants and it totally worked.

Now we find ourselves married for going on seven years and we consistently crave things that the other person finds disgusting. Both of us are mystified by this. And yet, it continues.

Today was Husband’s day off and I really wanted to do something nice for him. I mean the one thing I feel like I can handle at this point is cooking something for him that he really wants to eat, because I’m certainly not going to squeeze myself into some of my old lingerie after a day of caring for our children. I did try this once and I believe I pulled a muscle trying to wrangle myself into a corset. I plunked myself on the floor of our closet and all at once I understood why women simply GIVE UP. 

It’s just exhausting to shave my legs and even blow dry my hair … so pouring my ample curves into something too-small with 20 hooks up the back of it just isn’t going to happen. I know that this is something I need to work on, and I plan to, after I sleep for a month or so and then buy some pretty, new, fancy things that actually FIT me. 

Until then, I’ll cook.

So anyway, Husband got up this morning and I greeted him by asking what he would like for breakfast. We settled on pancakes and he was really excited about it. I pulled everything out to make them and realized that we were out of milk and so he ended up having to eat Eggo waffles instead, that I put in the toaster for him. It was really disappointing for both of us.

Later, I asked if there was anything he was really, really wanted because I felt like a failure of a wife and since he’s not getting any bedroom action he might as well eat good food. He thought about it and came up with … crawfish etouffee. 

Hello.

Crawfish seriously disgusts me. I know it’s blasphemous for me to say that since I’m from Louisiana, but I think it really stinks and it doesn’t taste too good either. I don’t know where to procure crawfish here in Alabama, and even if I did, I have no clue how to cook it and I certainly don’t want my house smelling like it. The first time I ever saw Husband throw down at a crawfish boil, it kind of shook me up. I wasn’t prepared for what happened. He went into a kind of zone and he tore into it like a rabid caveman. 

So anyway, back to today: I said I was really sorry but I just can’t make him crawfish etouffee for obvious reasons. So he asked me if I could fry him some chicken. With the skin on, of course. Like a whole chicken, with legs and bones and innards that I guess I would either have to pull out, or peek inside to make sure someone else had already removed them. Oh, and little hairs. Because I know they are there.

I fell silent. I couldn’t bring myself to say “I can’t make that either,” even though it’s the truth. I don’t know if I can stomach it. But that would mean that I’ve basically become a naysaying person who says no to everything: lingerie, crawfish, and now chicken legs with the skin on it.

I suppose it’s time for me to woman up, get myself a chicken, whack it to pieces and deep fry it up.

I am so, so scared.  
Please help me.

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One thought on “Time To Woman Up.

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