On the Other Hand

He didn't see me struggle as I reached around and up my back one way, and down and over my shoulder the other. Silently, I looked pleadingly at him for assistance and he immediately came over and zipped up the back of the dress, and spun me around to admire the front view. The look on his face confirmed that the splurge was worth every penny.

I stood in my closet, where the bulging jewelry pouches hang, with my back to the bedroom. Trying and failing, my fingers just couldn't get the clasp to connect while holding my hair up and out of the way. He stepped up behind me, moved my hair off my shoulder, and took the beaded strand from my trembling fingers. With a gentle touch that belies his manliness, he clasped the necklace and let my hair fall back in place.

He arrived in time to have a glass of wine before dinner, and before he'd even sat down, I mentioned the broken glass that was littering the bathroom. I'd been clumsy again, and hadn't been paying attention while I reached for the moisturizer in the medicine chest, not realizing that the short drinking glass was teetering precariously on the edge. As I dodged the open mirror door for a better view of the mirror, the glass upended itself and fell to the countertop, shattering and dispersing the tiny shards of glass everywhere within five feet. He offered to sweep, while I held the bag, as it was clearly more than I could do all at once. He grabbed the paper towels and suggested that we dampen them to scoop out the invisible pieces that lingered in the sink, protectively and gently cautioning me not to touch the sink or the countertops.

While teetering on high heels, with one leg lifted while the other held the weight of my body, he lent me his shoulder, without having been asked, so I could find balance and adjust the strap of the offending shoe. It was as if he'd always been standing there, just waiting to be needed for support.

With an aching back and a large purse full of whoknowswhat, I slid to the edge of the sticky leather bench seat in the back of the warm taxi cab. Wincing as I swung my legs around, I placed my feet on the cement and looked up to see a hand outstretched to assist me. I reached for the hand, allowed my weight to lean into it, and I pulled myself to a standing position and lifted my handbag back up onto my shoulder. I looked into his eyes, smiled, and uttered a subtle, yet genuine, comment of thanks.

As an independent woman who has lived on her own, alone, for three years now, it is a welcome change to find that when I need an extra set of hands, one is right there, ready to help. I can't do it all on my own, and shouldn't have to. Despite my quiet stubbornness and insistence that I can handle it, sometimes I must admit that, quite frankly, I can't.

I'm so grateful that my life now includes a second set of hands.