I’m a #strongindependentwoman solo wandering the globe, but I would have quite loved to have had a boyfriend next to me last night.
One o’clock in the morning I am woken up by Mother Nature banging the drums of thunder directly above my head. It sounded like the sky was falling down.
It wasn’t just one nice soft little drumroll of thunder followed by a single flash of lightning; it was a full on drum and bass rave in the stratosphere. The thunder was a deep and ominous roar, accompanied by what appeared to be a series of frantic explosions. The rain was beating down, light on my teepee tent like bullets on tin.
I couldn’t get Moby out of my head and I felt that sense of unease in my stomach that we humans get when we fear our life is in danger.
So I got my phone out and asked Google if I was going to die.
Googling to Safety
It’s unfathomable omniscience can be really useful most of the time, but it can also make already scary situations a whole lot worse.
Google the cause of a tiny rash on your wrist and within seconds you’re diagnosing yourself with the early signs of a rare tropical disease you must have contracted at a food market and start writing out your will. Apparently, the same goes for Googling thunderstorms.
The first thing I wanted to know was am I safe alone in my giant metal-framed teepee tent in the middle of a forest.
It appears that it probably wasn’t the best place to be considering the storm was directly overhead, but before I made a run for safety to the kitchen, I just wanted to check one thing…
So my choices were; stay and risk a tree falling on my head or run for shelter and risk death-by-lightning-bolt.
I decided to take the risk, so I put on my waterproof mac, grabbed my pillows and blanket and ran in my white cotton PJs and matching eye mask to the kitchen.
After about an hour or so, the storm had passed and I wasn’t dead.
The following day I was enjoying the calm after the storm; lying down at the marina in Fornells and recapping on my meteorological misfortune.
I’m not sure if it’s being the eldest child, imitating the strong women around me or rebelling against the fact my parents were happy to do anything for me when I was little, but I’ve always had a fiercely independent streak.
In every past relationship I competitively always wanted to be, and successfully was, the breadwinner – I wanted to stick two fingers up at the notion of needing a man to support me. I hated the idea of being bought a drink in a bar and resented the girls who deliberately went out seeking it. I would always carry my own backpack even if I could feel each and every one of my vertebra slowly crumbling with the impossible weight of it.
Chivalry was dead to me, because I’d whacked it over the head with a spade and buried it.
This opinion that I’d moulded over decades is changing quite rapidly with the series of events that have taken place over the last six months, and still are.
Right now I couldn’t care less about making money, the only currency I’m dealing in is happiness, so all that breadwinner stuff is out the window. I still like to buy my own drinks and carry my own things, but I’ve learned to accept acts of kindness without feeling some sort of guilt and urgent need to repay. And, as the thunderstorm saga proved, I do really love, need and want to be looked after sometimes (preferably by somebody tall, dork and handsome).
Especially when it comes to danger, I really do think there’s something natural and instinctive in us wanting the protection of a man.
When I got flashed at by a ginger-pubed-pervert when living in Aix-en-Provence, the first person I called was my boyfriend Gareth. When I was depleted of all energy and had spent two hours fearing for my life cycling up and down thirteen mountains through a deserted national park in Croatia, the first person I called was my Holidate. And last night, I really wanted to rent a boyfriend to spoon me for a few hours until the thunderstorm passed.
So amidst the torment of la tormenta (thunderstorm), I’ve learned yet another valuable life lesson. My Rent-a-Dog or Rent-a-Kid business ideas, for people who don’t have the time or aren’t responsible enough for full-time adulthood, aren’t where the money’s at –The BFE is.
The Boyfriend Experience would be a little bit like an escort agency, pay by the hour, except you’d swap sex for emotional support in times of distress.
Just a thought..