Sharing my sandwich

A few weeks ago I ordered a sandwich at a cafe. When the woman behind the counter asked me if I wanted mustard on it, I said yes. Then I thought to myself: “But I don't like mustard. Why did I just say yes?” And then I realised... the mustard was for him. Somewhere deep inside I already knew that the sandwich wasn't just for me. I was going to share my sandwich... with my boyfriend. And yes, I call him my boyfriend, in the completely heteronormative, committed, and monogamous sense of the word.

He didn't understand the symbolic importance of the gesture, and seemed confused as to why I was making such a big deal about the mustard. But you, cherished blog readers, I think you will get it.

I shared an actual sandwich with my boyfriend.

And the best part? I even enjoyed it.

Looking back on who I was and what I wanted only a few months ago, this is quite a departure. It's as if I had been campaigning for years for the right to a diversity of ice cream flavours, and just as I finally convince my local ice cream shop to offer 50 different varieties, I go in and order vanilla. Now there's nothing wrong with vanilla, I like it very much, and it may in fact be exactly the flavour I want right now. But I feel like a bit of a fraud. When I was craving tiger tail, and rocky road, and bubblegum, I hated it when people would tell me that one day I would realise that what every girl really wants deep down is vanilla. How dare they tell me what I really want! And it kills me to admit now that they were right; That after sampling all those exotic flavours of ice cream, nothing has ever made me as happy as vanilla.