“I’m not a Princess, I don’t need to be rescued. I’m a Queen, I got this shit handled.” That is my current bumper sticker. Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I was born with an independent streak. I wasn’t the little girl who wore frilly dresses, hoping that someday her Prince would come and sweep her off of her feet. I had too much to do, no time to wait around for some man on a horse to rescue me. I have always been able to rescue myself. Yes, I have been prone to getting myself into a mess from time to time. I have a knack for doing things the hard way. But I always get myself out.
When the Prince showed up to rescue me from my tower, I was long gone. I had already ripped up my sheets to create a rope to climb down on my own. I was born without the patience gene needed to be a Princess–that gene doesn’t run in my family.
I come from a father (and grandfather) whose motto is simply, “if you want it done right, do it yourself.” I can do the girly things like keep house and bake a cake, right after I snake a drain and replace my kitchen cabinets. I have a Kitchen Aid Mixer . . . in the cabinet right next to my Dewalt drill and miter saw. I can build a house and then decorate it. I don’t need anyone to help me (OK, I might need some help building the house–holding the walls and drywall while I install them with my air compressed nail gun).
Perhaps this is why I have had trouble with relationships. I am self-reliant and I think that men secretly want their woman to need them. TJ and I used to get into fights because he wouldn’t let me pay for dinner. I used to get annoyed when he would rush in front of me to open the car door. My usual comment to such a chivalrous gesture, “Are you going to throw your jacket over a puddle too so I don’t get my $30 shoes wet? I am capable of opening a door on my own.”
Now I’ll admit, it would be nice to have someone around from time to time–especially when I have to carry new furniture up to my apartment. But I am used to grabbing my furniture pad, putting the item onto the pad and dragging it up a flight of stairs to my apartment. Of course I usually buy “build your own” type furniture so I can carry it up in pieces–which I then put together myself and earthquake proof it myself.
The point is, I have discovered over time that I can take care of myself. You can crown me “Miss Independent.” I don’t need anyone–except my therapist.