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