I quote Barbara Stanny saying, “A man is not a financial plan,” in almost every one of my workshops. And yet the other day when I was having an incredible craniosacral healing session with Melanie Ericksen and she got all my chakras in order and buzzing, she asked me a question as she cradled my head. The theme of our session was on releasing any blocks to romantic partnership. The question was, “Is it important for you to be with a man who’s a provider?” And the “yes” that came through my body was so crystal clear that I surprised myself.

So the question is, why is this important to me? Why is it important to any woman? I can only speak for myself to answer this question, but I have a feeling that the deep part of me that wants to be provided for is probably strikingly similar to that deep part in any woman. So, again the question, why is being with a man who is a provider important to me? Honestly, on a purely intellectual level it seems silly. I am more than capable of making money. In fact I’m really good at making money and I always have been, ever since the days of selling lemonade and babysitting. I have a career that I love. I have a very strong (sometimes too strong) masculine side that supports me in getting ‘er done, making plans, going after things, and fueling my ambition. I have a great sense of direction. I’m pretty handy around the house. I’m really good at fixing plumbing.

So given that I am fully capable of providing for myself and I have no doubt in my mind that I’ll continue to be able to do so with increasing levels of abundance as I get older, what’s with the provider desire? There is a part of me that simply wants to be taken care of. As much as I teach about the importance of women’s financial independence and literacy (which I TOTALLY believe in and stand for) there is a part of me that wants someone (preferably a handsome man) to take care of it all for me. Yes, it’s true, on some level I’m waiting for my Prince Charming. Barbara Stanny wrote a fantastic book called Prince Charming Isn’t Coming: How Women Get Smart About Money and I confess that I haven’t been able to get through more than the first twenty or thirty pages despite having read both of her other books several times. My inner damsel in distress still yearns for him to come sweep me off my feet and just do it all for me when it comes to making money and providing. No matter how many books I read to talk myself out of this and no matter how much I learn about investing and take major actions towards financial freedom and independence, I have a really pretty inner hanky-dropping eyelash batting über-feminine self who is ready and willing to be cared for. (Side note here: I do want to be clear that I’m building residual income, investing, saving, and taking all the steps around being my own Prince Charming despite this little part of me that yearns to be cared for.)

Yes, I know this is all biological. It’s really only been a nano-second in recorded history that women are at all capable of being their own providers. When my grandfather died just barely over thirty years ago, my grandmother wasn’t even able to take a loan out in her own name. Women have only been considered worthy citizens with valid opinions (ie, allowed to vote) for the past ninety-one years. My mom wasn’t able to attend Dartmouth, her dream school, for her undergrad degree because when she was eighteen they weren’t accepting women. Biologically speaking, women have evolved to look for men who will take care of them and their kids. Its all based on procreation and keeping our species going, I suppose.

So what is a twenty-seven year old woman like myself who consciously and intellectually knows she is more than capable of taking care of herself to do with this desire to be provided for? Do I only date men who make six figures? Do I act a little less capable than I am to allow the space for men to be in their masculine and take care of me? Do I practice “egg wisdom” and sit around and do nothing and simply attract more often?

The truth is it feels good to be taken out to dinner. I love knowing I can surrender into the capable hands of a guy who will make a reservation, hail a cab, know the directions, open the door, escort me into a room with his hand at the small of my back, order for me, and get me home safe and sound. The truth is I make decisions all day long in my business. I lead. I decide. I take care of. I hold space. I love doing all these things. And I love having them all done for me. The truth is I have a financial plan and it doesn’t have a “y” chromosome. And the truth is I still want to be taken care of. I think (and hope and pray) that I get to have both.

Do you want to be provided for?

Is there a part of you that is waiting for your Prince Charming?

What do you think about the traditional masculine and feminine roles and how they play out in modern relationships?

I hate packing. I really do. Despite the image I project of overall “having it togetherness” and organization, I always wait until the last minute to pack. People who pack a week or even a day ahead of time confound me.  I almost always pack within an hour or two of when I’m supposed to walk out the door. In high school I always had my friend Ellen come over to sit on my bed for moral support while I packed for trips. In college I had my roommates keep me company as I begrudgingly loaded the suitcase. Somehow packing alone often seems more than I can bear.

Now, here I am the night before a much-anticipated ten-day trip to Maine and I can’t seem to get myself to put even one, lowly flip-flop into my suitcase. I could understand dreading packing for a trip I didn’t want to go on, but I’m really excited to go home tomorrow. So I’m writing instead of packing. Which seems like a good use of my time given my re-commitment to 21.5.800 the other day when Bindu decided to extend it for an extra ten days. (Thanks girl. You’ve given me a reason to postpone the packing for another hour or so.)

This tendency towards last-minute packing is genetic. My dad would take a big hero, winter camping trip every year when I was growing up. Inevitably, the night before he was leaving, he would take a late-night trip to L.L. Bean’s flagship store ten minutes up US Route One from our house. When I say late night I mean 1:00 or 2:00am…far past normal camping supply shopping hours. (Luckily L.L. Bean in Freeport, Maine is open twenty-four hours a day. Fun fact: the store was built without locks on the doors because it’s never closed. Not once. Not ever.)

When my dad does finally put things in a suitcase, though, it is done with the same exquisite attention to detail as a French pastry chef crafting a mille-feuille. Witnessing my father pack a bag reminds one that God is in the details. If you’ve ever seen the film As Good As it Gets you may recall the scene when Jack Nicholson is preparing for his road trip with Helen Hunt. His garments, toiletries, music collection, and accessories are laid out on the bed with the same care one might organize and itemize the crowned jewels. My mom and I burst into hysterical laughter when we watched the movie because it was as though they had stolen the idea for the scene from my father’s life. I shall be eternally grateful for the acute special awareness and attention to visual detail that I inherited from my dad (and for the fact that this attention to detail leans toward obsessive compulsive behavior in only small, isolated and rather insignificant moments.) No one can pack a bag, a trunk, or a cooler like my dad. If you want to put more things in a space than that space should seemingly be able to hold, Dr. Kenneth Moller, III (aka, my dad) is your man.

Its not intense attention to detail that derails me with my packing, though. (The above story about my dad has been included more for interest and packing history than as an explanation for my aversion to the activity itself.) I think it has more to do with the fact that I gain a great sense of security and confidence from knowing that I have the right outfit for a given occasion. When I was in elementary and middle school I would lay my school clothes out the night before in the shape of a little human beside my bed, complete with socks, underwear, and accessories layered in and placed in the appropriate locations. My mother would often bet startled when she came to tuck me in because it looked like there was a random person lying on my floor. When I’m nervous about a presentation or event, if I can simply visualize myself in the correct outfit everything suddenly seems as though it’s going to be okay. So I think its safe to say that my procrastination around packing has to do with my obsession with the “perfect outfit.” Since it’s unlikely that I will ever truly put together the “perfect outfit” I am probably avoiding packing because I have set myself up for inevitable failure.

I am aware that this chronicling of my packing neurosis may make me sound vain. I mean seriously, my confidence and sense of security in the world comes from having the “perfect outfi”t? Yes. I suppose I’m somewhat proud to answer affirmatively to that question. Because the truth is, if I know that everything is in order on the outside —if my hair looks okay, my nails are done, my eyebrows are waxed, my outfit is rocking, and I’m not sporting any runs, wrinkles, stains, or smears —then I can let what’s on the inside really shine on through. And most of the time what’s on the inside is pretty great, valuable stuff that’s worth sharing, especially if I feel like it’s packaged in the right ensemble.

So thanks for reading as I unraveled my packing aversion. I always know that there’s something bigger behind the silly things in life that I avoid. Avoidance is incredibly rich with information about what’s going on below the surface. For me it seems that my avoidance is a layer of procrastination icing on a cupcake of perfectionism and a desire to have everything under control. It’s fun when all roads of self-exploration lead pretty much back to the same destination. At least I’m consistent.

Okay, there’s an empty suitcase calling my name…and some perfect outfits to be planned and packed.

What tasks are you avoiding?

Do you like to pack?

Do you have any tips on packing?

What do you think is below your procrastination or avoidance?

Day 1 of 21 of Bindu Wiles’ 21.5.800 project. I slept 8 hours last night. I woke up feeling more or less refreshed (though still a bit hungover from a weekend without much sleep, no alcohol involved.) I meditated first thing. I weighed myself and noticed I have dropped 3.5 lbs since I stopped having caffeinated coffee, dairy, sugar, refined carbs and wheat, even though I ate dinner really late last night and went to bed on a full stomach. So how do I feel? Hopeful. Satisfied. In control.

In control. That one is sticky and tricky and sneaky. I believe ever-so-strongly in the power of responsibility and personal choice. It’s one of my highest values. And I love the feeling of being in control. Ah, Control . . . she’s a seductress wielding to-do lists and Filofaxes and well-filled-out calendars. She’s an excellent driver and has a laser sharp sense of direction. She’s clear about her desires. She’s decisive. She’s a top-notch negotiator, and her motto is: “Clarity is power.” I love her because she makes me feel safe. She sits next to me as I schedule my days within an inch of my life and tells me how fabulous I am. She whispers in my ear as I organize dates with men who, smiling, uneasily fall into the fold of my agenda. Planning is her religion. She makes me feel safe.

Her sister, Surrender, doesn’t come around as much, but when she does, Control is nowhere to be found. There’s no animosity between the two, they simply understand that both are happier and better able to flourish when the other isn’t around. Surrender wears chiffon and walks like she’s floating. She sings a lot and never knows what time it is. She uses her intuition to make decisions and she giggles with delight when the world pleasantly surprises her eight million times a day. She takes bubble baths. She chooses things based on what feels good. She calls quietly to me to do nothing but watch the steam wind its way out of my teacup. She invites me to allow other perfectly capable people to make decisions. She likes to sit in the passenger’s seat and look out the window as someone else drives. She loves limbo, the grey area, liminal space, and the unknown. When Surrender is visiting I feel a bit wobbly and nauseous. Yet, when she leaves and I think back on our time together, it always seems that everything worked out perfectly and things happened that were so much better than anything I could have planned or even thought up on my own.

I once was upset with a boyfriend who I was berating for never stepping up and planning anything. I felt like I was always suggesting dates, organizing the details, and taking care of logistics. I wanted him to take the reins sometimes. He replied lovingly, “I would gladly take the reins if you would simply let go of them.” Wow. The hydrogen peroxide sting of truth.

I’m an Aries warrior princess and I like to be in control. I’m a natural leader and the CEO of a company 750 strong and growing. I like being in the driver’s seat.This weekend I was in Chicago and my friend Brian, possibly the most chivalrous and highly-capable man on the planet, was showing my cousin and I around the beautiful windy city (named that not because of the weather, but actually because of politics. Who knew?) I have never been to Chicago before and I had no clue where we were headed as he led us to a restaurant he had in mind. As we came to a crosswalk I felt myself leading him to turn left —and he followed! We looked at each other and burst into laughter as I realized that I was taking the reins to direct a man in a city he’s lived in for his entire life and that I’d never been to, to a restaurant I had never been to, nor did I have any clue as to where it was. But I had such a strong instinct to turn left that he’d actually followed my lead, and didn’t realize it until we had walked a few steps in that direction. My homegirl Control strikes again — as we say in my family, “Seldom right, but never in doubt.”

I clearly don’t have this one figured out. I’m an enthusiastic backseat driver and as I look at my calendar for the week ahead, and even the summer ahead, there’s barely time to breathe — and this makes me happy on some level. I’m sheepishly and delightfully aware, though, of how my instinct to control edges out possibilities for magic, wonder, and synchronicity. I have no conclusion other than a wee prayer: May Control be at my side only when absolutely necessary (such as when I’m paying my taxes or driving on a crowded freeway.) May I learn to trust that Surrender has my back just as much as Control, perhaps even more so sometimes. May I have faith in the wisdom of letting go. May I allow someone else to do it sometimes, whatever “it” is. May I Surrender.