Please, please, PLEASE stop telling me to cook for my man wearing nothing but an apron. I’m talking about this kind of shit (courtesy of Glamour US):
Lady columnist: I do not care what you and your friends get up to in your own homes. That’s your affair. But magazines constantly implying that I should be some kind of domestic slut housewife stripper combo is really starting to get on my (comfy sweatshirt clad) tits. By all means, continue reinforcing arbitrary gender norms in your own time, and within your own relationship, but don’t make the rest of us feel inadequate because we come home, put our pyjamas on, and heat up the microwavable Sainsbury’s Shepherd’s Pie, before having perfectly adequate missionary sex followed by cuddles and Celebrity Masterchef. I don’t want to be spanked with a rolling pin, either.
All this baking/cooking lifestyle fetishization means women are ultimately going to end up in a place where we’re expected to jump naked out of giant cakes (again.) Except this time, it’ll be a giant home baked gluten-free organic cupcake glazed with the souls of our feminist predecessors.