There are lots of traditionally “female” tasks that I’ve never quite gotten a grasp on: walking in very tall heels, putting on eyeliner, wearing flattering trousers. But while I’m okay with my fashion and beauty choices leaning toward the whatever-is-easiest option, there’s one arena where, feminism be damned, I feel guilty for failing to live up to my “womanly” duties, and that’s the domestic sphere.

Since moving in with my boyfriend in 2013, I’ve realised just how outclassed I am when it comes to cooking, cleaning, decorating, and all things related to keeping a home looking like, well, a home. I didn’t grow up learning about those kinds of tasks. Sure, my single mom and I did laundry, vacuumed, and washed dishes, but in our small two-bedroom apartment, things were more often haphazard than immaculate.

My boyfriend, however, takes after his mum, who polishes the kitchen counter every day — sometimes more than once. I lovingly refer to him as a “neat freak.” He objects to the term, but I consider it 100% accurate. He gets restless if even one couch cushion is astray. I’ve gone to the bathroom and returned to find he’s folded the blanket I was using mere moments ago. He has a generous cookbook collection and enjoys few things more than selecting and following a new recipe. For a recent dinner party, he made his own ricotta.

Me? Well, I’m the exact opposite. I can hard-boil eggs and make polenta, and that’s about it. I toss my belongings wherever is most convenient and don’t care if a stray pile of mail sits on a living room chair for days (or weeks or months, if I’m being honest). I’ve never purchased a bed, couch, or any other furniture, instead subsisting on hand-me-downs. I make my bed when we’re having company, but otherwise actually prefer to climb back into my already nicely rumpled sheets.

We dated for a year before moving in together, and my messiness was definitely a subject of discussion. He knew I had issues with hoarding and cringed whenever I mentioned all the stuff I had lying around the floors of the two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment where I lived alone. It’s one thing to hear about the clutter, but another to cohabit with it. To my credit, though, he’d also seen me fastidiously wash dishes at his place (that, along with vacuuming, is my favourite chore).