A couple of years ago I wrote here about my little trip to The Hamptons in the US. The whole ‘I went to The Hamptons’ for a holiday still makes me giggle. It felt then, as it still does now, like being on the set of a delightful B-Grade American movie, where everyone’s kind of gorgeous and looking like they’ve just fallen out of a Ralph Lauren commercial. Which many of them probably have.
There’s just not that many places in the world that have that effect on you and when I think about it, a lot of movies I grew up watching were either filmed in The Hamptons or made some sort of reference to it. And then along came Sex In The City, and once again, back we went.
And now, here I am in the middle of our Aussie summer, in a place called Verbier in Switzerland. Yet again having to pinch myself to believe I’m here and that I’m now surrounded in what looks like some sort of magical Disney movie.
In fact, it’s like Disney on Ice, the real story. Any minute now I’m expecting Snow White or a talking squirrel to bail me up and ask me for directions where I would politely explain I’m not from these parts, but you are.
Ok, so, I don’t mean this to be a big fat, ‘look at me, look at me’ festival, but among many wondrous moments I’m having right now, the glarlng one, requiring some serious UV goggle, is that it has finally come to my attention, that I as a woman have really stuffed one major thing in my life.
I have gone raging like a bull through life with the attitude that I never want to rely on a bloke for too much. The combination of feisty Leo and coming from divorced parents has played a fair part in coming to this rather one eyed mentality, and it has therefore shaped a fair chunk of my life, in ways that have steered me towards good experiences I might have never had, and away from others maybe I should have had.
The reason for my discovering, was quite organic, as rather than do what most other people do when they holiday in Verbier, which may result in leaving with a skiing injury, I arrived in town with one.
Not actually from a skiing injury I’ll admit, more the result of a mid air pirouette that lacked planning upon the descent., leaving me with a severely sprained and bruised left foot, and a slightly red face and a tiny bit of sweat moustache.
Those boring details aside, I hobbled into this beautiful snow capped town and by default became the ‘damsel in distress’. And suddenly, all these lovely men want to help.
They don’t know I never actually planned to ski, but the pure fact that clearly I’m hurt, and they assume I must be devastated I can’t ski, is enough to almost stop traffic. Certainly a couple of ski mobiles anyway.
And I have to admit, I like it. Why the hell have I been so busy in my life trying to appear that I don’t want any help? Why have I feared so much that a man doing things for me meant that somehow he would think he owned me?
A friend’s been telling me for awhile that men need to feel they have something to do when it comes to women otherwise they feel inadequate or don’t know their place. I have suspected through recent experience that she may in fact be right.
So here I am, with this attractive soufflé style foot, wrapped in a bandage bought by one lovely gentleman. Having my bags carried by another, and gorgeous strangers approaching me enquiring if I’m doing ok.
I’m not even begrudging admitting; the ‘damsel in distress’ routine feels alright.
I’m actually loving it so much I’m tempted to do a black run and hope for the worst. Or at least lie at the bottom of it weeping ‘SHITTTTTTT, sorry….excuse me, for heaven’s sakes…..please sir, would you be kind enough to help me?’
AM I THE ONLY ONE THAT FINDS IT HARD TO LET A BLOKE DO SOMETHING FOR ME?