It’s a man’s job

Three birds pooped on my mini while I was in Ikea today.  Gross. That has to be washed off pronto, I don’t want the paint damaged. But I get home and resolve to ask my husband how to clean it when he gets home several hours later. He actually enjoys washing cars, and he is very particular about the tools he uses. He has special shampoos and spot removers and cloths and sponges of different softness. I wouldn’t know which to pick! He might even be angry with me for using the wrong one! And so it goes that he offers to do it for me. Thank you darling! I revel in my sly little victory. Then I ask myself: How did I get like this? I have always prided myself on my independence: I can connect a washing machine, trim the hedge when necessary and lots more that would probably not feature in womens magazines. It was my dad’s most valuable lesson: being a girl does not absolve you from being able to fix stuff.

I know deep down that I have chalked washing cars up on the man side of the divide. Just like fixing the kitchen cupboard door, which I reminded husband yesterday again is really irritating me. I could just get on with it, but for some reason I have not fully explored I don’t. I told him it was a man’s job. “Oooh, I can’t wait to point out the next chore that is a woman’s job!!” he roared. “Don’t you dare!!”

I respond with unconditional rage to the phrase “That is a woman’s job”. How can I allow myself to utter its twin?



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