Several months back, I was making sandwiches in my parents’ kitchen. At the time, it was also my kitchen.
Just as my crispy beauties were coming out of the press, my dad walked in with my near-centenarian grandfather.
“Are you making some lunch?” Grandpa asked.
“Yeah,” I eeked out.
“You know how you fix that?” The patriarch asserted as though he was criticizing my craft.
“How?” I asked, not entirely sure what he was getting at, but eager to recieve a kernel of his vast wisdom.
“Get married,” he began.
I wasn’t following.
“Then you don’t have to cook your own meals,” he finished.
“You can make someone else’s meals, too,” interjected my father.
Never in my life had I been so confident that I would just prefer to eat alone.
HR Lincoln 
ACK.
i didn’t realize that once a man-dude got married he was forbidden to make his own sandwiches.
this reminds me of one of the variants of a conversation i had repeatedly in siberia with people of all ages and genders:
“jenanne, your boyfriend in canada, how does he manage without you?”
“what do you mean, manage?”
“does he live with his mother?”
“no, with his friend.”
“is his friend a man?”
“yes.”
“how do they eat?”