I’m sitting tonight in the den, having already done my share of the house chores. My housemate, who is cis male, has been relegated the task of scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I listen to him sigh and growl and groan out in the kitchen. He is doing the Man Chore Performance where simple jobs are depicted as tasks worthy only of Olympian Heroes.
I can imagine his inner monologue:
“How can any mortal man accomplish such a feat? For lo, it looms beyond mere human capability. How ever might I meet this dread and Herculean task?”
Cue spotlight. Hand flourish, elegant fingers pressed to temple. A somber lowering of the head.
.
… Nope. I’m not buying it. Not tonight. I stay right where I am and give out calm advice like, “soak it first before you try to scrub.”
(Advice not heeded. I hear him grumbling. Scraping at the floor.)
For nearly any woman on earth, scrubbing the floor is just another Tuesday.
For this man? The mighty task deserves a gold medal.
I say nope. Again, not buying it. Just scrub the fuckin’ floor.
Photo by Masjid MABA on Unsplash
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