And I decided it would be a perfect day to wash the sofa cover.

Why not?

I took it off, shoved it in the washing machine, washed it—everything was perfect. I even felt a little proud of myself. Here she is, a grown, independent woman, running a household. 😌

And then I took out the cover.

Wet.

Huge.

Heavy, as if a second sofa had suddenly appeared inside it.

And that's when my confidence slowly began to fade.

I tried to lift it.

Then fold it.

Then unfold it.

Then I realized I really needed to hang it out to dry somehow.

Outside.

Somewhere high up.

So it actually dries, not just hangs there, dripping on my feet.

So there I am, holding this wet monstrosity in my arms, trying to simultaneously hold it, open the door, figure out where to hang it, and still maintain my dignity.

And suddenly it dawned on me.

I don't need a butler.

I don't need a personal driver.

I don't need a man who brings me roses every day.

I need ONE man.

One.

Who calmly appears next to me at that moment, picks up this wet sofa monster, tosses it where it needs to be, and says:

"That's it. It's drying."

And I reply:

"Thank you, darling."

And I go make coffee. 😂

And so, in twenty minutes of washing the slipcover, I came to some pretty serious conclusions about my personal life.

The funniest thing is that I can do everything myself just fine.

But sometimes, it turns out, I just don't want to.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't the strong, independent, and all-inclusive woman.

Sometimes I just want to say,

"Honey, there's some huge wet thing here. Please sort it out."

And for some reason, I think that's a very good argument in favor of a relationship. ❤️