My coworker wandered into my office this morning to have our typical pre-lunch conversation, where we trade all of the super important out-of-office details from our fascinating personal lives. As usual, it went something like this:
Me: What up? How was your night?
Him: Solid. Went home, dusted my computer. Did some more dusting. For dinner, I had defrosted vegetables and a protein shake.
Me: Defrosted vegetables?
Him: Yeah. I was reaching for a box of cereal, but then I thought, "I should probably eat some vegetables." So, got my veggies in for the week.
Me: You know you're supposed to eat vegetables every day, right?
Him: Well . . . .
Me: I had BBQ roast beef, baked macaroni and cheese, salad with homemade lemon vinaigrette, and roasted sweet potato. For dessert, I made key lime pie ice cream.
Him: Oh, I meant to tell you, last week I ate an entire box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. But I used skim milk and only half the amount of butter, so I feel like it was healthier.
Me: . . . Please get a wife.
I'm well aware that it's 2011, and that consequently the advice I offered my coworker in response to his dietary issues might sound about sixty years out of date. Gender roles aside, I do think there's something about sharing your life with someone else that makes you more conscious of your lifestyle choices, and hopefully a healthier person as a result.
But also, I was raised in the Midwest, where the amount of care and concern a woman has for a man correlates directly to the portion size of the red meat she puts on his plate and the number of baked goods which she produces for his consumption. So when I tell my coworker everyday that he should find a wife after he tells me that he ate the dried breadcrumbs of bachelorhood for dinner, what I really mean is, "You're a nice guy with a lot to offer, and I want to see someone take care of you."
Personally, I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen lately, because I've been sharing meals with a very Nice Boy (oh, let's just go ahead and shorten that to v. NB). Because I like to cook and he likes to eat, I enjoy cooking things for him to eat. It's a practical way for me to show him that I care. Steaks with red wine sauce and asparagus with lemon, baby portabella mushroom caps stuffed with turkey sausage, chevre, and Italian sweet peppers . . .
The dessert list alone is enough to make the Hoosier in me blush:
- creme brulee
- espresso creme brulee
- lemon pudding cakes
- poached pears in red wine sauce with creme anglaise
- poached pears with homemade red wine ice cream
- lemon cupcakes with buttercream frosting
- honey glazed roasted almonds
- molten chocolate cake (pre-Lent, that is)
- lemon sugar cookies
It's getting a little bit out of control. I feel the need to keep one-upping myself by making increasingly complex dishes so that he knows that I'm trying. "At first, I liked you enough to make a pasta dish. But now, I want you to notice that we've progressed to red meat, roasted root vegetables, and folded cloth napkins, which is not something I would trouble myself for if you were just an average dinner guest . . ."
I almost cried recently when I accidentally burnt a batch of cookies. Yeah, I'm that ridiculous.
But after church the other day, we went for a walk around Capitol Hill, and he took me out to dinner instead. As we were sitting at the restaurant discussing the sermon, I learned a valuable lesson:
NB: I'm not exactly sure what he was trying to say with the second point of the sermon.
Me: Oh, I think it's kind of like the "slap bet" from How I Met Your Mother.
NB: (blinks)
Me: (sheepishly) You know, like from season 2?
NB: Did you just use HIMYM to illustrate a sermon? You just won major points in my book.
I've baked him a dozen different desserts over the past few weeks, and I know he's appreciated them. But the thing he can't stop talking about is how I made a passing reference to his favorite TV show. You know why? Because he likes me. He appreciates the things I do, but he would still like me if I did different things, or even if I didn't do anything at all.
Over the years, I've worked embarrassingly hard to gain the favor of various men. I've learned how to keep baseball scorecards, I've debated theology at four o'clock in the morning, I've run countless miles and spent who knows how much money on make-up and heels. I did those things to try to prove that I could become the woman who would make those men happy, and I called my efforts "sanctification." I know they appreciated the things that I did, but my efforts didn't actually win me any points that mattered.
I have a lot of opinions on what love is supposed to be like. But the older I get, the more misguided I realize I've been. Sure, it's nice to do nice things for nice people. But we should do those things
because we love them, not because we're trying to manipulate them into loving us back.
After all, that's the model we've received from the
God who is Love.