Here are some confessions of a fiercely independent girl who cautiously admits that she might sometimes need a co-pilot (and what that means for you, my would-be co-pilot).
I am independent to a fault, single by choice, selective about who I let in.
I’ve let you in and that’s a big deal.
I always make a detailed plan but I’m no good at reading a map.
Navigate us to our destination. Get us un-lost. Get us lost, then find a secret oasis on the way back.
I can give a presentation to a full auditorium but I stick close to the punch bowl or on the sidelines at a party.
Hold my hand and introduce me to who you know in the room. Make me laugh. Please don’t let go.
I know how to put up shelves, fix minor leaks and install simple light fixtures. I have an irrational fear of snow blowers and lawn mowers. And power saws.
Please fix what I can’t, and also take care of the lawn. I’ll cook dinner for you and spoil you with goodness, but I don’t iron.
I can usually finish the Sunday crossword myself but I’m not so good with the sports clues. Or Harry Potter. Or British idioms.
Help me finish this…I love that your encyclopedic brain holds piles of different trivia than mine.
I have no problem going out to eat or drink solo in a foreign country. I don’t get out so much in my own backyard.
Let’s try that new restaurant downtown. Takeout would be okay too.
Theories and eureka moments always sound better in my head. I’m not always my own best sounding board and I always know what I mean even if it doesn’t come out of my mouth the way I meant it. I can’t ask myself the right clarifying questions or give myself that “I have no idea what you’re talking about” look.
You take me seriously…You don’t laugh when I work out my theory out loud, and maybe you pretend—or even really get—what I mean when I’m finally out with it.
I don’t think humans are necessarily meant to mate for life, but I’m not wholly sold on polygamy or open relationships either.
You’re willing to help me figure this out.
There are weekend nights I want to stay home and in my PJs, eat kettle corn from the bag for dinner and watch sappy romantic comedies. Or steamy NC-17 films. Or both, in the same night.
Ask me how the movie was. Ask me if you can bring the popcorn—or the massage oil—next time. Know when to ask each question.
Sometimes I have to tell the world I’m perfectly OK flying solo in order for me to believe it myself.
You support me when I need to be alone. You believe in me when I need to prove a point.
Sometimes the world believes I’m perfectly okay flying solo when all I want is someone besides the dog to spoon with at the end of a long hard day.
You see through my BS and know when to hold me tight, and if you can’t be there you call. And text. And send a picture of your smiling face.
Sometimes I am totally OK flying solo and have amazing experiences and outlandish adventures. Blogging about it is different than sharing a private joke experienced in a foreign land.
See me off. Ask me to include you in the next adventure. You know when. And read my blog, adding your comments if I’ve left something out. Tell me that you like what I’ve written or if you disagree with my observations.
It’s hard, this being-a-grown-up thing, and working full time and owning a flat and keeping it all together all the time so I can be a rock for my friends.
Be my rock sometimes. Let me cry on your shoulder. Absolve me of responsibility when you see I need it. Know when I need you to take control.
I am selective about who I let in. If you’re in, you will know.
Know that I do not live sans passion. Understand that I live for the light. Have patience with me because you know intimacy is hard for me. Have integrity.
Have humility. Have fun. Hold my hand. Kiss me like there is no other place you’d rather be. I’ll be yours.
Author: Lesli Woodruff
Editor: Renée Picard
Photo: Pedro Ribeiro Simões at flickr