In “Where There’s Smoke …” (Season 3, Episode 1), the ladies meander over to Staten Island where Carrie is tasked with judging the NYFD annual male calendar finalist selection. There’s all sorts of fun shit sprinkled into this episode but what I really found fascinating was the overarching theme, as follows: do women all want to be rescued in some form?
I know, I vomit a little in my mouth when I read that too, and yet, it’s a pervasive theme in our society. Is it not? I want to tell two stories, both entirely relevant to this subject matter.
I don’t know how we got onto the topic but I was attending a work meeting whereas we got to chatting about the car buying process. A gentleman I work with (and I use that descriptor with a heavy dose of generosity) was explaining that he’s mastered the art of car buying and is quite proud of this skill. Fine. Great. I suppose the story would have been a little annoying but okay had it ended there. It didn’t though, end there. He went on to explain that the last time he went to pick a car up, he saw a mother and daughter sitting there and felt a deep burning desire to help them.
Um, WHAT?!
Let me start with the sentiment that this is not a unique thought to this individual. In fact, last time I went to pick up a car, I was asked if anyone else would be joining me. Like who? A neighbor? My sister? A best pal? Nah. Just me bozo. I knew what the salesguy meant though and it made my fucking skin crawl. What he wanted to ask is whether I would have some male figure joining me at the table. Boyfriend? Father? Kind friend with the appropriate genitalia for such transactions?
Fuck that. Are you actually kidding me? Outside of the deeply offensive gender-role association, I was blown away by his lack of desire to even hide his thought process. There was no embarrassment or hesitation. Even when I said no with distain dripping from my lips, he clung fast to his sexist, bullshit narrative. I wanted so badly to report him, but to what end? The problem is systemic. I would be placated, and he would keep on saying dumb shit to all the women he would encounter over the course of his remaining career.
The second story actually ties into this story in a roundabout way, so I’m going to dip my toes into that pool for just a moment. A friend of mine has shared repeatedly that a man will be the solution to her problems. She will have someone to do things with and someone to be physical with and all the areas of her life that seem soulless and empty will vanish overnight. She acknowledges that her relationships have been fraught with ugliness and dysfunction, but still stipulates that something is always better than nothing.
I try. I really, really try to be open-minded and respectful. I struggle. Deeply. I find this whole thought process to be insane and backwards and deeply misguided. My feelings have nothing to do with the terrible relationships I’ve been in, though certainly that fact is an element. They have way more to do with the fact that I know, with certainty, that nothing which feels broken inside of us can be fixed by another person or some external force.
Outside of a burning building, the notion of being rescued or saved is completely fucked. We have to figure out all the ways in which we can save ourselves. This is unbelievable challenging but also, completely necessary. Temporarily we might be able to enjoy the rescue. The connection to another human will act as a band-aid over the parts of us that are open and vulnerable and wounded. The thing is, the band-aid will get grotty and old and will eventually fall off. The wound will still be there, underneath it all. No one can save or fix us. If they could, when we find someone (albeit temporarily), we would be fixed forever and not for a moment. The temporary state of it all is the clue.
You feel like shit when your rescuer has left because nothing has been fixed. You were temporarily distracted and knocked off your path. You have not done the work and no one else can do the work for you.
There’s another part of this that is important to explore. When we are vulnerable and sad and broken, we attract the wrong kinds of people to us. They are people who manipulate and take advantage. They are liars and gaslighters. We’ve made it known that they are an undeniable solution to a problem that we have and in turn they can do whatever the fuck they want, provided they remain our savior. What does that mean though? What constitutes the saving or rescuing? What separates it from the rest of the shit? Can we ever let go of the person who we needed to save us? What about when the saving is done?
I’m going to share an uncomfortable truth with you. The saving is never really done. It doesn’t work that way. We sort of memorialize someone in that role, such that we forgot exactly why we needed them to begin with. Or worse, we convince ourselves that we owe them for rescuing us. They did us this solid and the repayment term is forever. We are indebted in a way that defies imagination. We will owe them for the rest of our lives or at least until they leave us. We can’t leave them. Obviously. What a horrifying suggestion.
I am speaking to the ladies here but that is grossly unfair. This sentiment, this notion, is for everyone. Pain and bad decision making are equal opportunists.
We do need emotional saving from time to time, but there is only one human around that can do that for us. You know what I’m going to say, so let’s harmonize, eh? You. You have to figure out how to save yourself. The fucking coolest part is that once you do that, save yourself, you’ll always have YOU in your arsenal. Also, you’ll start to attract the right kind of people. Also, when you don’t, you’ll recognize it sooner and save yourself a shit ton of heartache. It’s amazing how all of that works.
Trust me. I’m not reading from a script. This is real life. I’ve been there. I am there. I will be there.
Give it a shot. You got this.
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