When I was kid there were two young adulthood experiences I often imagined: college and getting married. The former is far behind me now, but the latter is nowhere in sight. Though I never expected I'd get married right out of college, I also never gave much thought to the lag time that might occur between the two events.
Over the past several years I have swapped back and forth between being the better half of a pair and being stone-cold single. While nothing is lovelier than being in love, there are some benefits to singlehood -- utterly unapologetic independence not being the least of them. I love coming and going as I please, even if it's often alone. I've also picked up a few necessary skills along the way: I can fasten a complicated bracelet clasp one-handed; I can recognize a dishonest mechanic and call him out on it; My umbrella skills allow me to get myself in and out of a car in a monsoon without soiling my hair or outfit with a drop of rain; and I've actually fantasized about how the face of a would-be purse snatcher would meet the heel of my stiletto knee-high boot as I roundhouse kicked my way out of an assault.
On the contrary, when I've been in past relationships I've had boyfriends work hard to take care of me. They've argued with automechanics, they've soaked themselves to make sure I arrive somewhere dry, they've taken very charming steps to accommodate my every whim and solve all my crises. Is it adorable? Very much so. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Necessary? Perhaps not.
But every now and then I am reminded that there are limitations to my self-sufficiency. One such incident:
A few weeks ago I decided to go through and remove the clutter in my bedroom, including relocating my college computer and monitor to the attic of my condo. Instead of calling on one of my lovely male friends for assistance, or at least waiting until my roommate's boyfriend was around to help, I decided I'd hoist the roughly shopping-cart sized items up the rickety ladder and into the perilously dark attic myself.
I started with the monitor. I managed to hold the bulky piece of equipment awkwardly in one arm (yeah, I work out) and made it all the way to the top of the ladder -- only to discover that the angle in which I'd approached the opening to the attic was all wrong. There was no way I could wedge the monitor through the narrow opening and into its new attic location. For a solid minute, as I balanced the heavy object on my leg and held onto the ladder with my one free hand, I contemplated whether I'd drop the monitor and that would cause me to fall, or if I'd first fall and then the monitor would land on top of me. Then I calculated exactly how long I'd be sprawled in the hallway of my condo before my roommate would arrive home and discover me with my newly shattered spine laying among a thousand fragments of computer monitor.
Truly by the grace of God, I managed to remain calm and inch my way down the ladder without damaging my own body or the stupid monitor. Upon safely arriving back on the ground, I promptly skipped over to my neighbor's condo and asked her burly marine husband for assistance. He kindly (and effortlessly) accomplished what I could not.
I guess I need these reminders -- while being able to care for oneself is a good thing, asking for help when needed is wise. And, by-the-way, I am happy to let any nice young man haggle on my behalf, lift my heavy objects, and otherwise rescue me any time!
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While I'm sure you'll find your knight in shining armor one day, it's nice to see that not only are you a woman that has no qualms about taking care of herself, but also has no aversion to being taken care of. Too often in modern society, the overplayed and skewed voices of feminism have such affected the minds of young women that they actually resent being offered the least bit of help from any man. They can even take it as a personal insult. I was at Wawa just the other day when a woman in front of me laid out 96 cents in loose change on the counter for gas. Seeing that she was obviously down on her luck, I laid down a $5 bill and told the attendant to add that to her gas purchase. She pushed it back at me and gave me an emphatic "No Thanks" and a dirty look before muttering "I can take care of myself just fine" on her way out the door. I respect independance, but when offers of assistance begin to be taken as insults, there's something wrong with what society is teaching people.
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