making breakfast in the dark, the lesser known springsteen hit

On Monday morning, I woke up, walked in the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and my overhead lightbulb flipped me the metaphorical bird.

With the hall lights on it wasn't too dark, and I managed to pour my cereal and fix my lunch without major incident. Last night when I got home, I rifled around under the sink, found my last remaining light bulb and dragged a chair in from the dining room to get up there and take care of business.

All this, only to find that even on the chair, even on my tippy TIP toes on the chair, I still lack about four inches of being able to even touch the globe, much less unscrew it, reach the lightbulb and put it back on. Other than the fact that I may now legally classify as a little person, this situation causes me to think one other thing. One other very anti-feminist thing. I mean, it's not anti-feminist like, "I'd rather bake you a pie than have an independent thought" anti-feminist. It's more like, "not worthy of mentioning in a Beyonce song" anti-feminist.

It just seems like lately there's this running list in my head of reasons I need a man around. I know, I know. But really, there are a few very pertinent ones: to kill cockroaches, to investigate weird sounds and, of course, to replace lightbulbs. And naturally, the No. 1 reason? So I can get rid of the overwhelming urge to buy a new outfit every time I go on a date. Because dear sweet GOD, I would kill every creepy crawly anything and climb 10 ladders to change a single lightbulb if it just meant I could wear sweatpants and granny panties and fuzzy socks and not feel concerned about the way my ass looks in any of it.


cheers,
elizabeth