I just realised something: I haven’t made dinner for as long as I can remember. How lucky am I?
T gets home before me everyday (including, obviously on days he doesn’t work). And for weeks now, he’s had dinner ready or in the works by the time I get home. All I have to do is eat it and then clean up the kitchen. It’s a far cry from two years ago when I would be in class all day, get home at 9 and find that I had to make food because he hadn’t bothered to – or worse, was out with his friends. Not that I’m saying that he shouldn’t have a life, or anything, but couldn’t he have hung out with them on the days that I didn’t work late instead?!
Honestly, I also get kind of a strange kick out of having a boyfriend who kicks my ass at cooking. Is that weird?