Back when I was young, in my twenties, I had a mild flirtation going on with my best friend from junior high's brother. At the time, I was involved in a relationship with a guy who was way more into me than I was into him and I wasn't super attracted to him, so BF Brother represented a younger, hipper, sexier alternative. He was In A Band and he lived kind of Day to Day, whereas the other guy was Responsible and Had a Career.
Anyway, I wrote the BF Brother these mildly suggestive letters, which were about how I wasn't into relationships (this was a great part of my attraction to older men & younger men during this time of my life), and how everyone else was a version of The Man.
One letter described in detail my trip to a grocery store and how I was so very disdainful of a conversation I overheard. A couple earnestly fought over what kind of bacon to buy as they stood in front of the meat counter. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and I'm quite sure that he was wearing loafers. This, to me, represented the very depth of the Ridiculous Domestic, that which I aspired never to be. I told this boy that I would never do this. No! I would discuss bacon with no man. What was the point? Choose a bacon and move on!
Well, friends, I can testify that now, nearly 42, I am all that and more.
But today, after Middlebrow & I raked & shoveled leaves from our driveway and lawn (yes, chores which normal home owners did in October), I walked to the store. I was all aglow with the domestic my friends. Yes, reveling in the fact that I, the woman who once proclaimed she would discuss bacon with no man, felt gratified by the morning's domestic chores and was, in fact, looking forward to even more domestic chores: making homemade mac and cheese for a friend's kids, making turkey curry, cleaning the living room, doing laundry (okay, I really didn't look forward to that!), totally ensconcing myself in the domestic tableau. Me! Once foe to The Domestic.
Oh how the mighty have fallen!