In 3 days or so I will have been away from my home for a month pursuing this crazy dream – and I hope it remains so for the following two years – called “I’m stupid enough to pursue an MBA degree”. There will be a lot of tears, pain, frustration, self-doubt, self-loathing and emotional eating ahead. It’s sort of like surviving to a Japanese game show but without a person in a panda costume randomly appearing for the sake of comic relief.
But let’s not go there just yet. Let’s talk about my wondrous household skills. You know, I never really thought about taking housework lessons before I moved out of the house where all I needed to do was ring a bell and point a finger to get things done. That, my friends, is the perfect example of why I desperately need MBA studies: I suck at foreseeing imminent disaster.
The worst part of it all is not realizing that you are incredibly useless; I realized that a thousand years ago and lived perfectly happy regardless. The problem here is that I am sharing a place with another dude and he’s not precisely thrilled about it. If there’s something that I hate more than animal cruelty it is public humillation – mine to be precise.
Let’s take for example that beautiful summer day when I innocently asked how the washing machine worked. He looked at me in disbelief and then with compassion thinking that perhaps that kind of technology was not available where I lived before. So he asked me in a very subtle way if I had one at home or not. I readily replied that I did and that her name was Maria.
I don’t know why I expected to suddenly learn all this stuff as soon as I moved out of my house. Isn’t that how adulthood works?
So now, not only does he know I’m useless, but he has also found out that I’m a bit of an elitist asshole. Oh, bummer. The really sad part is that that is not the end of the story. That was like the first day only.
Then I found myself against the biggest challenge of my life – and just so you know, I’m not talking about finding a
hot, rich, successful, intelligent, caring, hung husband (although…), I’m talking about cooking. That, my friends, is the final boss of adulthood. One does not simply walk into the kitchen without even knowing how to boil water. I’ve been through some very, very, very fun and life-threatening situations these past weeks.
To not make things more awful for me than they already are, let’s just say that toasting bread is not as easy as it sounds and it can successfully start a fire. The worst part was that my roomie came home right when I was running with the extinguisher to put out the fire. Jesus-fucking-Christ. That was our first day living together.
Best first impression or best first impression ever?
One month later, I can finally say that my food is actually edible when it is not burnt beyond repair. I’ve decided to celebrate the small victories or else I will be drowning myself in the hot tub in no time.
Did I mention just how hot my roomie is by the way?
After failing at pretty much everything in life, I had to start parading around the house in my underwear. I figured that, if anything, that would derail him from not kicking me out of his place in the near future. Obviously I keep screwing up on a regular basis so the time is near when I will have to wear my birthday suit.
By the end of the third week he half-joking half-worried asked me if I could do anything at all. I was so offended that I replied with the only thing that came to my mind: I’m great at doing it.
Unfortunately he didn’t want me to show him.
But not everything is bad, I mean, this whole experience has shown me to live life as if any day could be my last and you know what?
If I continue cooking, it might as well be.