Yes, as in being a damsel in distress. Pocket that incredulity — I’m not about to set the progress of feminism back a few decades. I won’t be endorsing the eyelash-batting and lower-lip-pouting variety of damsel. No “Oh my stars!” swooning or “little ol’ me just needs a big strong man” drawling. The kind of damsel-like activity I’m discussing is to be undertaken by guys and girls alike. That’s right, gentlemen: It’s 2013, and the time for you to embrace your inner damsel is now.
I’ve come to appreciate the daring that comes with being a damsel and showing your distress. This was not an easy concept for me to grasp. I’m the girl who bungee jumps, shark cages and, as a kid, dreamed not of being a princess, but a secret agent (kind of still do, actually). I like the sweet, sweet taste of independence. There’s also this tendency in me sometimes to play the martyr and not ask for help in a (usually) misguided act of “selflessness.” But people are compassionate, and helping someone out is a gift not only for the person being helped, but also for the person doing the helping.
After doing some quality (though admittedly cliche) bathroom-stall crying this past weekend, I realized that the root of my reluctance to ask my friends for help wasn’t some noble unwillingness to burden them, but fear. I didn’t want to be seen as pathetic or as the “Debbie downer.” I didn’t want them to resent me. But really, I was doing them a disservice by not letting them be the decent friends I know they are. When the motivation for doing or not doing anything is because you are honestly just scared, that’s something worth challenging.
From cracking my new iPhone’s screen, to Bank of America taking away my savings account, to the disappointment of a dream not realized, to that overly dramatic bathroom scene, this week hasn’t been a cakewalk. I was in need of some cheering, and being a damsel brought me that.
It happened after Felix, my cranky car, got a jump start from DPS. I drove for a while to give the battery time to get settled before I had to pull over to get gas. After filling up, Felix had a hissy fit and refused to start. It was time to ask for help.
After a procession of a kind woman, her nice-but-gruff husband, a Berkeley alum (or a guy who just likes to wear a UCB hat), a young couple, a gas station employee, a handy older woman and a few others, Felix rumbled to moody life again.
From the earnest concern in the older woman’s eyes to the good-natured car advice Berkeley Guy gave me, I felt blessed. I had gotten to witness a community’s worth of compassion. As fully as I’m convinced that God orchestrates the awkward run-ins in my life for entertainment purposes — and oh, do they deliver — I know He was responsible for this too. So the next time you’re in distress, pluck up your courage and admit it. Do damsel, my friends. It’s good for the soul.
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