I Am Not a Breast Man

I’ve never really thought that breasts would cause me any grief. However, breasts were the cause of a complete meltdown for me earlier tonight. Granted, these were poultry and not silicone.

However, before I get into that story, let me add a little backstory. We’ll all recall that my job is auto insurance adjuster. (I refuse to identify as “I am an). So Friday, I went to the house of a retired husband and wife to talk about their claim. Once business was attended to, we got on the topic of my leaving there to go to Danville. I mentioned that while not where I’d want to live, I have a soft spot for quaint college towns. I went to a small liberal arts school in a different city. The husband then launched into a little speech about how liberal arts schools taught you nothing but how to “sound fancy at parties” and taught no “sell-able skill.” He asked my major. I told him I’d double majored in English and Political Science. He then said “if you’re doing this, then do you feel like a failure?” I politely said my goodbyes.

I drove back to Lexington terribly conflicted. First thought was “fuck you”. Second thought was that ol’ dude kinda has a bloody good point. Third, “fuck you”.

So, it was with all of this in my head, I set out to make dinner tonight. You see, I have a fantastic boyfriend and the one thing he consistently does for me is make dinner. To someone who is below a culinary novice, this is a big deal. I thought I’d return the favor for him. He’s in a very busy/stressful time. His work is just getting really involved and he is wrapping up his senior year in college. He’s been at class and work all day and I’ve sat on the sofa. It really only just seems fair.

I found a recipe, complete with a video on how to make it. It seemed easy enough. It wasn’t. First step, I screwed it up. This started a really unfortunate snowball.

This chicken breast that I couldn’t properly cut, suddenly got assigned a lot of meaning. It represented my failure as a person. It represented my inability to do something good for my amazing boyfriend. It represented my general kitchen ineptitude. It represented my being unhappy with where my work-life is. This now mangled piece of chicken was getting into my head and messing with me. And it was successful in its endeavor.

The boyfriend had to take over and finish dinner. This was really the worst part. Something that was supposed to be FOR him, had to be done BY him. All because I couldn’t. He didn’t seem pleased. Granted, my ensuing meltdown over a chicken breast would really try anyone’s patience. And let me tell you, kids, the meltdown was ugly.

I will say that my adventures into cooking are over for a time. If not due to my lack of ability, then due to how a small mistake will build into all that it did tonight. However, I’ve now got another story to tell should I need to do more than just sound fancy at a party.