Today I was roaming around the flat, randomly checking the freezer of our fridge, thinking what should I do for dinner. I suffer from this a lot, the I-can’t-really-decide-what’s-for-dinner syndrome; and I try to move the unbelievably hard and complicated decision on my husband, insanely insisting that he has to decide, not me, because I just wanna fulfill his mighty wish, of course. Sometimes I am successful, mostly not, as it seems that this illness is widely spreading in our family and affecting our everyday (dinner) life.
When I come with this inevitable question, “What do you want for dinner, love?”, my clever husband sees through my brain up to the neighbour’s window and replies without moving an inch of his calm face: “Do you want to order out?”
What can I say? Honey, I always want to order out. There’s no moment in my life when I will prefer spending hour and more of making a family dinner over sitting lazily on the sofa and waiting for other people to do my work.
But sometimes I am nice and I say, “No, I don’t really feel like ordering out,” although it’s most likely meaning: “Yes, I would love to do so, but I have to look as a nice housewife, hence I’m gonna cook.”
I don’t have any particular reason not to cook anyways, so I ran out of excuses right before I got any to use; I’m just incredibly appreciating any moment I don’t really need to move a muscle.