That day was a watershed moment for me. For better or worse. Suddenly, as young women, we were very aware there was nothing we couldn't do and, as we drove home with our Girls Can Do Anything bumper stickers and posters, we all felt rather enlightened. If only we'd known what an absolute crock that was and how difficult we were about to make our lives from that point on.
That was the day, I do believe, I put my Superwoman Pants on. My ill-fitting, trouble-causing Superwoman Pants.
Do you own a pair yourself? You put them on and you can't accept help from anyone. The propensity to want to do it all yourself is palpable whilst wearing them. You would think that you may get some respite while they are in the wash but nope, every pair of pants you own are Superwoman Pants.
The other distinguishing feature about these pants is the pockets. They are pockets of simmering resentment. You see, you can't do all things for all people, all the time and not feel it. The main problem with these pants is that after wearing them for 20 or 30 years, the owner becomes brittle and boring.
But it has taken me until now to realise that I shot myself in the foot. Of course, girls can't do everything and why the hell should they have to?
There is no progress without recognising your own faults. Truth be told, I didn't even know how to ask for help and had been taught that day at Massey University (with all good intentions) that to ask for help meant that we had failed. The all-knowing tutors at the university that day were remiss. They should have told the bunch of bright-eyed 14-year-olds that there is a happy medium and there is also no reward for doing everything yourself, there is just exhaustion. I am woman – hear me snore. Helen Reddy, I'm sorry.
A few years ago, I had to fly to Auckland for major double knee surgery and had to take my Superwoman Pants off to get onto the operating table.
If there is ever a time that one is rendered completely incapable of anything, it is when they are being cut open. The irony is that I had to be anaesthetised in order to recognise this point.
It was when I was lying in recovery that I truly realised how wrong I have got it. The nurses were so kind and helpful and I let them be. I had no choice, but I lay there and thought about how often I let people help me. Rarely. At one point a particularly lovely nurse came up to me and put her hand on my arm. She told me that as I came out of my sedated state, I asked for my daughter Maggie. It was then that I felt a wave of vulnerability so great that I just cried. What sort of state had I got myself into that I cry when people are nice to me? When they want to help me? Also – how many other women out there feel the same way?
I made a big decision that day. No more Superwoman Pants. They probably made my bum look big anyway. Now I just feel relief. They don't call it a "recovery room" for nothing.
