When the first tickle crept into my throat yesterday morning, that sinking feeling hit me. “Fuck. I’m sick.” I thought.

There isn’t ever a convenient time to fall ill, but a few days before I get ready to travel to four different cities over the course of a week is really not the best time. My coworker gave me some Emergen-C to ward off the cold, but by the time I got home, I knew a few days of sneezing, coughing and a nose channeling Rudolph were ahead of me. After dinner, I went to the medicine cabinet in search of something, anything, to make me feel better. However, a medicine cabinet is one of those things you don’t consider stocking until or unless you’re on your death bed. Mine was pretty much empty.

I sat on the bathroom floor disgruntled thinking, “Isn’t this what a boyfriend is for?” The last thing I wanted to do at 9 p.m. on a Monday night was haul myself to a CVS for Nyquil. Instead, I dug through the purse I had back in January the last time I had one of these cold/death/flu things. I found a few Dayquil pills and decided they would have to suffice.

Sometimes independence is completely overrated. I know, I know. I hoorah for the single women all day. But, let’s face it.  That independence is no more overrated than when you are sick or when you have to lug groceries up the stairs. I experience the latter every Sunday night and that thought never changes. Yes, sometimes a boyfriend would be nice.

I spent most of today sprawled out on my couch watching bad television and wondering who put a vendetta out against me for me to feel like such a sack of shit. By 5 p.m., I mustered up enough energy to dress myself and head to CVS for more meds and Panera for some chicken noodle soup. But, again, isn’t this what a boyfriend is for? Oh, wait, right, I don’t have one of those.

You can take me down as the poster child for single women for one moment. Because, today, I just wanted to be taken care of. I wanted someone to make the soup. Or, hell, at least drive to the store to buy it. Bring me more tissues. Fill my cup with more orange juice. Sit at the edge of the couch and watch the bad television with me. Take care of me just by virtue of the fact that they care. I spend a large fraction of my life taking care of myself. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want someone else to do it every now and again.

Perhaps there is a myth about single and independent women, a myth that says how much we get off on being able to provide for ourselves. But, I don’t think we wave around these flags announcing our independence. I don’t think independence is as much a point of pride as it is a means of survival. We take care of ourselves because that is all we know. In the end, we are all still human and we need other people.

There is all this rhetoric spread about how you don’t need a man and you can run the world all by your damn self.  But, let’s shed the superhero cape for a second and admit that we all want to be taken care of. Maybe we don’t need it. Maybe we don’t require it. Maybe we can do really phenomenal things on our own. And, yes, independence is a characteristic that will serve you well in life. But, don’t be so independent that you can’t admit every so often that you want someone else to step in and help out. I don’t mean with your bills or the roof you keep over your head or anything else that’s really your responsibility. I mean someone who will drop another box of tissues by your side when you’ve exhausted the 120 in the first box and are now blowing your nose on toilet paper.

Yes, that’s the nadir I’ve reached.

Xoxo,

Tyece