Asking for help for me is like the tongue-in-cheek stereotype of the man refusing to ask for directions.
I actually get why men do it. It is so much more gratifying for me to be able to complete a task or “mission impossible” on my own without outside intervention. To ask for help indicates that I’ve failed in some way.
At least that’s how it feels.
For example, one day my husband and I were waiting around for a sales associate at a hardware superstore to come and help us with an item. After a few minutes, it became painfully apparent that if I didn’t find a bathroom – it would not end well. Continue reading
It was the perfect end to a perfect day. It was a beautiful fall evening. The festivities had ended, and I was surrounded by every love of my life. A large group of us were sitting around in a semicircle around the fireplace in a bed and breakfast in Sedona in a post-wedding day stupor – me, my new husband and my dearest childhood friends (who had all flown in specially for the occasion). One of my closest friends–and the one who’d married my husband and I that day–I’d known since the first day of kindergarten.
It didn’t take long before we were laughing boisterously over dinner, singing, reminiscing, and embracing as if we’d all had too much wine (no, just drunk on each other’s company) – as the husbands exchanged looks, confirming, ‘Yup, this happens every time they’re together.’ Although we live nearly a continent apart, the five of us turn into teenagers again each time we are reunited, never skipping a beat in our deep, rich friendships. I didn’t want this night to end, and cried yet again at our parting …
Because these were the girls that saved my life.