Handmade pasta crafted with love and devotion mere blocks from my condo. And me, an Italophile. How to resist? I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t. But I did have to tackle some obstacles: one steep hill, two awkward steps, and a whole lot of stubborn pride. I summoned the necessary courage for my first ascent to Il Corvo accompanied by a friend who promised to provide some turbo power, if needed.

I have accepted the sinking feeling that accompanies these outings. My fear that I won’t reach my destination. My anger at the difficulty of the seemingly ordinary. My disappointment at the ways of the walking world. This internal dialogue follows a predictable path. I want to do this by myself. I should be able to do this by myself. Crap, I can’t do this by myself. Why can’t I do this by myself?

I fight the collective fantasy of independence.

And I was right to do battle. Because my culinary curiosity must be satisfied. Because I refuse to be made invisible. Because I will never create change if I don’t make an effort. And I did need help. Friend Regan provided the boost. A fellow customer held the door open while I braved the entrance on my hind legs. Regan brought my wheelchair inside. Back in the saddle, I entered a world of ease: the space mercifully flat, the layout simple to negotiate, the bathroom ADA compliant. I had help getting the required utensils to my place. I had help transferring to my seat. I had help safely storing my wheelchair.  The food arrived. Hot. Delicious. Savory. Shapes I had never seen. Sauces I had never tasted. We lingered before the descent.

Assistance arrived immediately. A police officer offered to escort me down the hill. I happily accepted. I did not feel the least bit of stress or frustration. Heading home is often the easiest part of the journey.

What was I so worried about, apart from losing life and limb or limb and life? Appearances? Control? Judgment? Yes. Yes. And yes.

Well before my actual experience, when I realized Il Corvo’s renovation would not include a ramp, I contemplated a boycott. But that thought melted away in the pleasure of the moment. And I felt strengthened, not diminished, by the offers of help and gestures of support.

Do you shrink from accepting the help you need? If so, please stop to consider how your pride changes your choices or limits your choices or dictates your choices. And then, please find a counter-argument for each and every imaginary situation where independence is presumed as preferable.