It’s gotten to the point where I feel uncomfortable letting boys open the door for me. “Stop,” I’ll tell them, “I can do it myself.” To these boys, the few that I’ve allotted my phone number to over the years, I must sound like a five-year old hindering her father from tying her shoes, pushing him away as she fumbles through the loop it, swoop it and pull.
I have to admit; I am pretty good at tying my shoes. As a child, I excelled past Velcro-strapped sneakers, slid right on by the slip-on’s, my nimble fingers favoring lace-ups to alternative means of footwear. Doing things on my own was never a problem for me.
This includes opening doors. Perhaps Beyoncé ingrained in me the lyrics to “Me, Myself and I,” subconsciously programming me to be strong on my own, perhaps for the rest of my life. Depend on someone? No thank you. A girl has to be prepared. What if, by allowing boys to open doors for me, I lose the motor memory to open them on my own? (more…)