I have failed as a woman.
Today I had to throw out 5 cucumbers that had been completely consumed by fungus, to the extent that they'd become practically liquid; a jar of beautiful olives stuffed with feta cheese that I'd ambitiously opened and not consumed for a while. I've thrown tomatoes, some really beautiful red grapes, an onion, an orange, a yellow capsicum, an opened and forgotten tin of cooked and salted broad beans (rajma) and just had my brother cut up about 6 musambis (what are they called in English?) because I was worried they might not get consumed otherwise. My enthusiasm for grocery shopping does me in, every time I'm in the fresh produce / vegetables section I'm rushing around with this image of me in my head, cooking nutritious, delicious, simple meals. This week my dinners on different occasions have been:
- cup noodles
- a red velvet cupcake
- a cheese omelette and toast
And the beautiful vegetables I keep buying keep dying. I could buy smaller quantities but at the time of my purchases I'm Julia Child in my head. I need 9 cucumbers. I am a conglomerate heap of trash, and not one that burns with a bright flame.
Every Thursday night, my sense of triumph on having simply lived through the week is incredible. I like to think that my weekend ahead of me will be productive in ways that I want them to be. The paintings I got from India remain unframed, the mess on my dressing table that I keep meaning to clean stays where it is. I consider my weekend successful if I manage to have a successful nap. By Saturday night, I've sort of acquiesced, and I sit in my quiet defeat waiting for the new week to start, so I can constantly dodge whatever comes my way, and just make it through to another weekend. I remain concerned that on having to actually spend time with the very old man, and I mean spend time in real, normal people, human terms and not in some escapist lost weekend way; I will be completely horrible to him. Worse, I will remorselessly be horrible to him. As my brother pointed out, I'm horrible to every one. I have a vicious temper and am often driven by the need to ensure that the other person in the room has fully understood the depths of my irritation. This is my week. I am made to understand that other women somehow find the time (from their versions of living through the week and living with rotting vegetables) to be pretty and vibrant and interesting. And they are not jerks either.
It's the weekend, internet, it's the weekend.