My femininity is failing me.

As I cooked pasta and prepared a ready-made sauce last night, I realised I’m the worst example of an archetypal female that ever was.

Last week I came home to buckets of homemade elderflower pressé brewing in my kitchen. My housemate is very talented; she’s a busy career woman, yet successfully keeps a menagerie of plants alive in our flat – even growing her own tomatoes (although, she has informed me they are at least a month behind the neighbour’s). Rose has furnished our place with second-hand finds and somehow made it look one of London’s most Instagrammable cafés, complete with a framed a photo of Prince.

In the time it took me to defrost my Sainsbury’s arrabiata sauce and boil my wholemeal pasta (Wholefood’s finest), Rose had effortlessly produced a fresh ratatouille to last for the week.

I don’t class myself as a ‘foodie’. Sure, I love eating, but if it requires more effort than chewing and swallowing on my part, I just won’t engage. Maybe that’s why I’m dating a chef? After slaving over a hot stove or some high-tech appliance he talks about, my boyfriend will come to my flat and knock-up a variety of delicious dinners for me to freeze and survive on for the uncertain days ahead. I wanted to write about the meal he made me last week, but I couldn’t remember the name of the dish; I’m so un-foodie, that I googled ‘chak chuma’ instead of ‘shakshouka‘.

Wanting to return the food favour, I was going to make a cake for his birthday. My grandma has so little faith in my baking abilities, that she recommended a visit M&S’ patisserie aisle instead. What happened to my A* in GCSE Food Technology?

To quote that same grandma: “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Of course, she was referring to my reluctancy and/or inability to iron.

I do have an iron in my flat, but since purchasing it two years ago, I have used it twice. The annual iron. If I need to iron an item of clothing before I can wear it, I will leave it hanging on my chest of drawers for four weeks, and every night as I watch Netflix and finish my 8 Minute Abs YouTube tutorial, I will consider ironing that top, but will always deem it too arduous a task.

Does anyone actually know how to fold up an ironing board?

One thing I do have going for me when I finally decide to look for a prospective husband, is my obsession with cleanliness. Eat a kebab in my bed, and you know those sheets are getting washed tomorrow. Walk into my room with muddied shoes, and watch as I have a nervous breakdown while ferociously scrubbing the floor with Dettol antiseptic wipes. On an average tube journey, I will sanitise my hands at least twice, even if I’ve not touched a pole. Last night I saw a man sneeze into his hands, then steady himself by grabbing an overhead bar. And once I saw a man leaning against a pole with his trousers so low that his bum-cheeks comfortably engulfed it. These things make me die inside a bit more everyday.

Obviously my inability to cook and clean is entirely my family’s fault, who selfishly burdened me with an insurmountable pressure when they asked a teenage-me to time a boiling egg.

I’M SORRY THAT I’M NOT PERFECT AND THAT THE YOLK WASN’T RUNNY.

I may look like a lady, but those female traits that were supposed to be bred into me are yet to kick in. Women, for example, are famously good at multi-tasking – well yesterday, I locked myself out my neighbour’s flat with all my belongings still inside, because I was too distracted by a dog.

And then there is motherhood – a possibility that fills me with pure, unadulterated anxiety. Scrolling through my Facebook feed looking for videos of animals doing funny things, I saw a photo an acquaintance had uploaded. He was holding a baby, and it triggered me to ask, “why do people cry with happiness when they hold a newborn? They look disgusting.”

I don’t know if I’m broken, or whether I’ve just got a bad case of the Millennials, but either way, I’m barely surviving on basic life hacks right now (did you know, if you flirt with a Pret a Manger barista enough, sometimes they give you a free coffee?).

Send me your mothers, I need help.

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Twitter: @PippaBugg
Instagram: @PippaBugg

Images via Giphy.

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Relationships, controversial ramblings and ongoing internal feuds - this is an uncensored account of a twenty-something's mind.

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