When I was a young single woman, I always had roommates.
At one point, my little townhome in Glen Mills, Pennsylvania, had a revolving door of women in various stages of singlehood living in every nook and cranny. It legitimately had three bedrooms, but somehow we managed to squeeze three more into a partitioned section of the basement. Looking back, it was like living in a dormitory (only without the drama).
We genuinely liked one another.
When we’d get snowed in, we’d play games or dream up projects. One memorable winter I decided our snow-day activity would include painting the entire house. We held impromptu dance parties in the kitchen. Neighbors on both sides became honorary members of our little family. It was loud, imperfect, and wonderfully full of life.
From there, I went straight into marriage. After my divorce, I lived alone only briefly before my beloved Mark came into my life. He was either at my apartment or, before long, we bought a home together.
Then Mark died in 2021.
For the first time in decades, I was truly living alone.
The early months were filled with moments that had very little to do with what was actually happening.
I remember the check engine light coming on in my car. I pulled over and burst into tears. It wasn’t really about the car.
It was grief looking for somewhere to go.
I drove into a random auto repair shop, crying, and asked the mechanic, “Can you just make it go away?” Bless that kind man. He did exactly that, both with the warning light and, at least for a few moments, with my panic.
Over the years I’ve learned to do things I never imagined I’d have to do. Some things I’ve figured out because I had no choice. Other things I’ve learned thanks to YouTube, which deserves some kind of humanitarian award.
Recently I realized I was out of windshield washer fluid.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit it took me several minutes just to figure out how to open the hood. But after consulting my trusty YouTube instructor, I poured in the fluid, tested the sprayers, and watched clean water arc across the windshield.
Success!
I wished my arms were long enough to give myself a proper pat on the back.
As it turns out, arm length would soon become an issue.
I’m known for wearing bright colors, but an acquaintance had lost her mother, and I wanted to pay my respects. Deep in my closet, I found a black dress I hadn’t worn in years. I managed to wriggle into it, zip it up, twist it around, and head out the door feeling rather accomplished.
The problem came later.
It was one of those rare humid San Diego days. I couldn’t wait to get home, kick off my heels, pour a cold drink, and change into something comfortable.
Except…
I couldn’t reach the zipper.
I stretched. I twisted. I pulled at the fabric. I tried every angle imaginable. The zipper refused to budge.
With every failed attempt, I got hotter, sweatier, and more frustrated.
It wasn’t just the dress.
It was one of those moments when living alone suddenly felt very…alone.
Years ago, when my single friend Frederika lived upstairs, this would’ve taken thirty seconds. I’d call up to her, she’d come down, unzip the dress, hand me a lint roller if I needed one, and we’d probably end up chatting for another half hour.
Instead, there I was wondering if I might have to sleep in the dress.
Finally I thought, “Maybe someone outside can help.”
I wasn’t exactly hoping to flag down a random man to unzip my dress, so I silently prayed for a woman.
Sure enough, down the sidewalk came a woman walking her dachshund.
I decided if she got within earshot, I was going to ask.
When she approached, I smiled and said, “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I’m stuck in my dress. Would you mind helping me unzip it?”
Without a second’s hesitation, she laughed and said, “Absolutely! I’d love to.”
I bent down to pet her adorable little dog while she rescued me from my fabric prison.
There is, I think, an unnamed sisterhood among women.
We carry emergency tampons, Band-Aids, safety pins, tiny sewing kits, tissues, snacks, and stain removers in our purses. We instinctively check if another woman’s skirt is tucked into her pantyhose. We straighten collars, fix tags, hold babies, compliment strangers, and, apparently, unzip dresses for complete strangers standing on a sidewalk.
Before she walked away, she turned back and said, “By the way…you look pretty.”
It was the sweetest little bow on an already memorable encounter.
I often encourage people to ask for help with life’s big challenges because there is no shame in needing one another.
But lately I’ve been learning something else.
The little things matter too.
Sometimes the little inconveniences become enormous in our minds simply because we’re carrying them alone.
Sometimes all we need is someone willing to spend thirty seconds helping us with a stubborn zipper.
I still look forward to the day when I am no longer single and have someone to share everyday life with again. Someone who can open jars, reach high shelves, tell me what that strange noise is, or rescue me from another impossible dress.
Until then, I’ll remain grateful for the kindness of strangers and for the quiet reminder that asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s one of the ways we stay connected.
And if you happen to see a woman standing on a sidewalk looking unusually uncomfortable in a black dress…
She may not need advice.
She may just need someone to unzip her.
