While I was back at my apartment I had a somewhat frustrating experience that lead me to my topic for today. For lunch I was going to saute some mushrooms with cheese, grill a salmon fillet, and have some rice (no, I don't usually eat this fancy I just happened to have this stuff today and thought it all sounded good). Everything was going just fine except that I couldn't open the jar that had the rice in it open (it didn't come in a jar, it was just being stored in there).
I tried every single jar opening technique I knew to get the darn thing open, which apparently isn't really that many, but they all failed. No one else was home either so I couldn't get someone to help me with it. Finally I was ready to just break the it, which I realize is kind of a harsh reaction but hey, I was frustrated. Right before I was about to break it on the counter I tried one more time and it finally opened (was it even worth it? Actually yes, that lunch was delicious so yes it was).
|It was actually almost this dramatic|
So I realize that a girl having trouble opening a jar is like the stereotype for needing help, or at least masculine help and it reminded me of another instance that happened last year. I was coming back to school from the two week break between summer term and fall semester and had to carry my suitcase, backpack, and laptop from the greyhound station to my new apartment. I total distance of 2.7 miles. Also, my suitcase was a few decades old and the wheels were broken, so I literally had to pick it up and carry it. All 70ish pounds (I'll have you know that I'm a very compact packer, I use very few bags, but as a result I'm sure not a light one). Well, I made it about an hour in before I finally gave up and called Aaron, begging him to come help me. The poor kid was asleep when I called (it was about 10 in the morning) but to his everlasting credit he got up and we arranged to meet at the library, which was near where I was.
The library was about 1.3 miles from the bus stop and it had taken me an hour and 20 minutes to walk there. When Aaron arrived, he grabbed my ridiculously heavy suitcase, swung it up over his head, and we walked the rest of the 1.4 miles in 45 minutes. Yes I know, I'm a wimp.
Anyway, my point of these stories is that I'm thankful for that help that I receive from others.I don't just mean masculine help when I'm being a wimp and have no muscle strength, even though both of these stories have to do with that, but all of the help that I receive. I have been so blessed and served by so many people in so many different ways and I'm just really appreciative of it. It seems that in general people are always being kind and doing things for me or giving me things or whatever. I'm also grateful that I'm learning to accept help more. I feel like pride is one of the easiest vices to fall into and I'm certainly no exception to that. I want to do things myself and I want them done my way (I just thought of another story that involves pioneer treks, airplanes, and toughing out heart attacks, but I'll save that for another day) but I'm learning a little bit at a time to admit when I can't do it on my own. And that it's perfectly fine to let a friend or family member help you reach your metaphorical bootstraps that allow you to pull yourself up again. So, thank you to everyone. If we've met before, chances are you've probably helped or served me in some way, and I want you to know I appreciate it and can't thank you enough.