ended up eating more than my usual share tonight because i cooked for 5 instead of the usual 4, not realising that zu wouldn’t be able to make it for dinner. am so full now that my tummy might as well be eclipsing my laptop screen, for all the concentration i’m giving my economics report (due 2 days ago, urgh).
those who know me well enough will know how much i detest cooking and how poor i am at the blasted activity, preferring a packet of instant noodles and Lays BBQ crisps to laying a hand on a pot anytime. it is midnight now, and having spent the last 3 hours cleaning, cooking and clearing up after the 3 boys, all with impressively larger appetites than myself, i can’t help thinking with some despair that i could have better spent that amount of time on my little himalaya of homework, all overdue already or to be handed in tomorrow. but the thought of my boys – 2 sick now and 1 always hungry – makes me hesitate in my regret.
i’ve always been fond of my breakfast boys, for their cooking talents (far superior than mine), their strange and varied sense of humour and their intelligence, but it took a major downswing or two before i could recognize their jibes, their smiling eyes and their laughter as awkward but genuine gestures of love. they are not quite friends in the traditional sense – they’re too emotionally independent to seek me, and for a couple of them, too guarded to reveal their more intimate secrets. and though we do have our brief yelling scenes and clumsy hugs, they’re not quite brothers either. they’re quite capable of unsympathetically calling on my bullshit and, like adults, put me in my place. they also already have their own family stories, worlds and cultures away from mine.
several times since my arrival here in Le Havre, i’ve sighed at not having more close girl friends. you can’t always tell your boy friends everything and expect them to understand. they don’t have your titchy moodswings, your desire to go shopping, your petty insecurities. they’re not used to not being able to open tight jars or to reach high lightbulbs, and they’re mystified by your inability to keep up with their long and rapid strides. they aren’t as prone to tears as you are in random times of sadness or anger, and can neither understand your vanity nor your self-absorbed ability to sometimes make it seem like the whole world is falling to pieces. they are not female, not tactful, not vicious; and so they cannot relate to your tremulous and unpredictable waves of femininity.
but at this moment, i feel most content with my strange little family-group of boy-men. a girl’s arms couldn’t feel as strong as the arms of my boys, a girl’s hand on my back not half as protective. with my breakfast boys, i feel safe, i feel female and i feel happy.