Hiding Under the Table

There are some things that are hard for a woman to admit. My sister, for example, swears that she will always weigh 125 pounds—at least on her driver’s license. My other sister consciously wore the wrong bra size for years, as if sheer will alone could increase what nature had predetermined a size “B.” I have a friend who desperately wanted affirmation that she had the singing voice of a diva, though her husband, even after the use of force, confessed that it wasn’t one of her assets. She refused to believe him. One day while driving in the car, convinced it was an “on” day, she recorded her voice over the telephone and sent it to his voicemail. When she arrived home, he greeted her somberly at the door, had her sit down, and played her the message. Even now, she swears it’s a lack of sophistication on his part, though she is willing to concede that she wasn’t Broadway material that day—and she’s more careful to drive with the car windows closed.

One of my most embarrassing, pride-reducing secrets is this: I can’t cook. Oh, my friends will say that I make a mean salad—but how hard is it, really, to chop up vegetables? I tell myself that there are advantages to being deficient in the kitchen. In the supermarket, I make good time by visiting only the breakfast cereal and frozen food aisles. At dinner parties, I always know that I am expected to bring the wine and bread. People love me for how I make their hearts, not their bellies, feel. But deep down, I feel it’s a flaw in my character.

I could try to blame my staunchly feminist upbringing. Cooking, like swimming, is something that should be learned in childhood. A daughter of divorced parents, I felt it beneath me to participate in cultural stereotypes by filling traditionally “female” shoes. In college, I pierced my nose, cut my hair, and bought take-out. It wasn’t until after college, when I moved across the country to San Francisco, and people who saw the inside of my refrigerator asked if I was a vegetarian, did I realize that I didn’t have an answer. I chose not to have meat in my kitchen, not for political reasons, but simply because I had no idea what to do with the naked body of a chicken.

Which is why the latest relationship I’ve found myself in was really a nail-biting, hair-pulling, ego-flattening experience for awhile.