42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

It’s always fun when your dad gets a poke in you because you call him for helping you with your windshield wiper blades, even though he lives 2,200 miles away.

“Get somebody to do it for you,” he tells me. “You’re a woman. Play that up. Make them do it.”

“I hinted around, Dad. The girl at the counter was not going for it.”

I make a couple more stabs at doing it myself, but I just can’t do it. I end up going to the service department of the store to ask for help. Meanwhile, my dad is chattering in the background.

“Make them do it. They’re supposed to do that. That’s what they’re there for.”

I have sweat pouring down my face. My ankles are actually baking by the heat of the parking lot’s asphalt.

The red-haired guy from the store changes the wiper blades in about 30 seconds. I’ve been struggling for five minutes, looking like an idiot and cursing because nobody would come and help me, even though I was a woman.

That’s what’s funny. My dad got a poke in, somewhere, at my feminist self. He likes to push buttons.

I’ll admit it. I don’t have much shame when it comes to getting help with my car. But apparently, I’m not small, young or cute enough to automatically draw help.

So am I ashamed that I had to ask for help? Am I sorry that I had to call my dad in hopes he could tell me what I was doing wrong?

No.

I did try to do it myself. I wasn’t getting anywhere. There’s no shame in asking for help when you can’t do something yourself.