Standards Too High
They say,
On Instagram
"Women who don't lower their standards
end up alone."
They were right.
Here I am.
Alone.
In my beautifully decorated house
Full of cobwebs
Surrounded by cats
who judge me less
than people do.
As I scratch the ears
of my most troublesome feline,
I sometimes wonder...
Maybe my standards
were too high.
I was looking for a male slave?
I never learned
how to crack a coconut properly.
No one taught me
how many spoons of curry powder
make a wife.
Want your food spicy?
Good luck.
My pantry is as chaotic
as my life.
I don't label my jars.
I don't own matching containers.
I certainly don't keep
an Excel spreadsheet
of household expenses.
Details
have always been
someone else's love language.
Mountains of clothes
waiting to be washed.
Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
I have never understood
the spiritual enlightenment
people seem to find
in watching
a washing machine spin.
I scrub the toilet.
Not because someone tells me to.
Because I like
a clean toilet.
There's a difference.
"What's for dinner?"
he'll ask lovingly.
For two days,
I'll make French cuisine.
Sri Lankan curries.
Something so exotic
even Google needs a moment.
On the third day...
it's Paan and Parippu.
Or nothing at all.
Consistency
has never been
my greatest strength
Obsession
Yes, it is.
I'll mop the floor
as a gesture of goodwill,
until my back begins negotiating
with my enthusiasm.
Halfway through,
they reach a settlement.
I admire those wonder women.
Sincerely
The ones who wake up
before sunrise,
pack adorable bento boxes,
raise children,
remember every birthday,
meal-prep for the week,
fold fitted sheets
without declaring war,
and somehow still have
fresh flowers on the dining table.
I wake up
and my first thought is,
"What am I going to eat?"
My PhD
is the closest thing
I have
to a life plan.
It is,
quite frankly,
the reason
for my existence.
So yes.
I'm lazy.
Spectacularly average.
In your eyes
Hopelessly imperfect.
Apparently,
that makes me
undeserving of love.
Because I can't audition
for the role of
The Ideal Wife.
Call it feminism.
Call it rebellion.
Call it laziness.
I call it
being human.
No,
I am not here
to serve anyone.
And please,
don't marry me
thinking you'll improve me.
I'm not
a renovation project.
I enjoy spending your money.
I enjoy spending mine too.
Money is happiest
when it's moving.
Let's travel.
Sleep until noon.
Make love
until we forget
what day it is.
Eat extravagant breakfasts.
Buy things
we absolutely don't need.
Not because shopping
completes me.
Because joy,
every now and then,
comes with a receipt.
And if one day
the laundry defeats me,
the curry burns,
the cats overthrow the kingdom,
my thesis consumes another weekend,
and dinner
is toast again...
Will you still think
my standards
were too high?
Or will you finally admit
that what you wanted
wasn't a wife.
It was an unpaid housekeeper.
A personal chef.
A cleaner.
A project manager.
An accountant.
A secretary.
A therapist.
And someone
who smiled through all of it.
So yes.
I sleep alone
with my impossible standards.
They take up less space
than a husband
who needs a mother.
But, tell me
I still have hope
is there anyone
out of their mind
looking for
a perfectly “ordinary” woman
like me?
By Jahooli Devi
