two water-related topics

I am freshly dried and back from senior water aerobics. I hadn't been to class in....a while. I'd been absent so long, in fact, that I'd completely forgotten whether I used a boogie board or a foam noodle for the abs workout. Senior moment, as they say.

It felt good to be back in the water. I am determined to get on a fall fitness program that will reduce belly fat and make me into the lean mean fighting machine I've always been, and will continue to be, in my head.

At the beginning of class, a nice older lady asked me if I was their instructor. I told her I was not, assuring her that Angela was far better than I would be. Then I felt very out of place in a pool full of senior citizens [OK, maybe there were two other younger women] that probably had better stamina than I did. It's a great burden looking so young and healthy. What's a misfit toy to do?

And speaking of a misfit, I took this photo in the airport restroom as evidence that soap dispensers can be discriminatory:

The spout is so long [looks shorter in the photo] it is impossible to push on the base while catching the soap from the end with one hand. Yes, I even tried grabbing the whole spout end in an effort to push the entire contraption down from that end.

There is no question, this dispenser was designed for two hand operation. It wouldn't be such a big deal [there are many things designed for two hand use], except that it could have easily been designed in a way that is friendly to one-handed users. It's a classic case of considering a problem from only one standpoint.

I should mention, at this point, that I am available for engineering consultations. My fees are very reasonable.
 
It's hard to get me angry, but after a ten hour day of flying and airports, this almost put me over the edge. I'm talking pure faucet rage, people. But anger is a sign of life, of the refusal to accept mediocrity. Let it out, I say.

Have you anything to rage about this week?

OneArmGirl 

passport

While on a brief stay at my parents' home last week, I did what every grown daughter is supposed to do when she goes to visit her parents. No, not throw out all my headless barbie dolls––they are still safely in a box in storage.

But I did go through my old things, remembering the good old days, and the not so good old days. I ended up looking through some family photo albums, which initiated my new favorite pastime––taking digital photos of old photos; or a little technique I like to call "lazy."

One of my finds was this, my very first passport photo:

And why would a two-year-old need a passport, you ask. Because I needed to go to Japan. What, that answer does not satisfy you?

There are a couple things to be noted about this picture. One, my coveralls were clearly too big for me, proven by the big bulge of fabric at my midsection. Two, my left sleeve has clearly been mauled by a badger, accurately exemplifying my style at the age of two.

This is my current passport photo:

I guess not much has changed, really. Although it's been a while since I wore a red jumpsuit. I'm not going to show you the passport photo in between these. It was taken in my early teenage years––'nuff said.

Speaking of passports, I am currently overjoyed to be home again, finished with traveling for the present. Every time I travel by air, I wonder how I got myself into that predicament again. From what I hear, it's like pregnancy––constraining, inescapable, people touching you in places normally considered off limits, bringing out the worst in you and inducing attacks of claustrophobia––yet you gladly sign up for another go as soon as the memory has faded. The similarities are uncanny.

Hope you are also enjoying an airport-security-free week.

OneArmGirl  

back

Hello. Remember me? It's the self-titled, physiologically misleading as it may be, OneArmGirl.


I'm back from a self-inflicted hiatus from regularity, including any and all blogging––just in case you worried that I was cheating on you with another demographic––and you can probably tell that I am sorely out of shape.

Where did I go, you ask? Scaring small children and drinking lots of coffee, what else? I'm keeping the rest of the story to myself because I like to pretend my life is that important, and I must protect my private life from my own celebrity. Just go with it. After all, I might have just been hiding under my bed for the past two weeks.

I will tell you I've been reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, so if my writing seems extra snarky, that may be why. I was delighted to learn in one of the chapters, that Tina also found a crude comment about herself on a bodybuilding networking site (aka hub for men with big egos and little...). If you'll recall, yours truly found similar remarks (these guys aren't that creative) about herself on a similar site.

So, of course, I concluded that I too must be a famous comedic writer. There is a big part of me that wants very badly to do improv. Surely there is a troupe out there needing a one-armed girl with a solid sense of humor...you can contact my agent (ahem, me) at OneArmGirl@gmail.com. No bodybuilders, please.

Regarding the aforementioned internet rudeness, I'm happy to report that Tina took the high road and refrained from responding to the unsolicited remarks...until she dedicated a whole chapter to it in her book. Or is that she who laughs last...?

Well, here's to many many more,,,

OneArmGirl

london, cheers, thanks

The time has come to bid farewell to London. I still believe it is the greatest city I've ever experienced, excepting the fifteen minutes I believed Denver was the greatest before it snowed two feet on my car.


But London is, as my Irish artist friend Janet says, "full on." From the impossibly varied salad choices at Marks and Spencer to the ethnic spectrum of faces on the street, the constant stimulation is exhausting. It would take more than a lifetime to know it intimately. And I prefer deeper relationships.

In my last college newsletter (or, prehistoric blog post) to friends and relatives, I said, with high aspiration, that the world was my oyster. Now, I just really miss my garden, washing my own dishes, and such.

So I think this country girl will take her leave. But I go with confidence in my growth since I last visited this city, ofttimes called the capitol of the world. As with the rest of life, it's certainly not as overwhelming as it once was. You don't feel compelled to know the whole world once you begin to really know yourself.

And now I'm going to do something I haven't really done since the inception of this blog. I'm going on a post-cation. I'm getting away from it all, as they say. Please try to remain calm, make no hasty decisions, and refrain from sending emails about how OAG has disappeared from your Facebook news feed.

I'll catch you up in a fortnight.

OneArmGirl

note to self

Just when I've started to adjust, I'm leaving. Isn't that always the way.

I've been thinking of the time I lived in London when I was nearly twenty-two. I was just a lowly film company intern then. Unlike now, with years of experience on me, and currently unemployed. But I'm actually quite liking the view from here, ten years later, at the ripe old age of thirty-two.


When I was interning, I went to work each day, walking and by tube, all the while wearing my prosthetic arm. It's unthinkable to travel by air with that thing now––can't afford the extra weight––but it was a regular part of my attire back then. Talk about baggage.

You can read about my great love for prosthetics in earlier posts.

This time around, I was fake-arm-free. I took to the streets of London uninhibited and unencumbered. People stared, of course, but in the intervening years, I've begun to wear handicap like a badge. I'm a member of an elite group of enlightened individuals who see inability as opportunity...to get priority seating on the bus, primarily.

And at the British Museum yesterday, a complete stranger chased after me just to tell me that I'm special....and because he wanted a picture with me. When I consented, he got some passing tourists to snap the photo. I felt ridiculous, but not nearly as much as when, after several takes, the conscientious tourist felt we needed another go 'round to be sure of a keeper.

It's a bizarre life I lead.

But taking photos with tourists is far better than hiding behind a facade, a body that isn't mine.
Now, at thirty-two, I inhabit my own body, and I'm happy with it. Well, within reason––haven't reached nirvana quite yet.

Do the Paralympics really change perception of disability? Some say it does disservice to the averagely handicapped, setting too high a standard for those of us who are not elite athletes.

To those I say, you've got too much time on your hands (or hand, as the case may be), if you're begrudging those among us with greater ambition or, dare I say, ability.

If all I take away from the Games, as I did the first time in Athens, is the ability to wear sleeveless shirts without fear, then I'm satisfied. Isn't it our own perception of self that matters most, in the end?

OneArmGirl

closing ceremony

It's the last day of the Paralympics, and it's the first day that I started to feel adjusted to this environment.


On our way to a service at St. Paul's Cathedral, Dad and I ran across the Paralympic Marathon. Dad was impressed by the public support shown to athletes with a disability.

"It's amazing," he said.


Then, over lunch, he said I should get onto the track and run. "They'd clap for you, they wouldn't care." I considered this, but decided I don't have the nerve.


I spent the afternoon at the British library, where I took the above (likely illegal) photo of an exhibit dedicated to London 2012. Athletics king, Oscar Pistorius running on blades is center, having competed in the Olympic games and Paralympic Games this year. But if you know anything about Paralympians, you know Pistorius.


Had a mossy lunch seated on gravestones outside St. Paul's. No offense to those encased.

OneArmGirl

catching up

Stayed in this morning and nursed my exhausted body. But I'm actually having a lovely time watching the Games on telly from my bed.

Later, we met up with my dear friend and colleague, Andy Atkinson.


Andy and I met when we worked together at Athens 2004, and hit it off almost immediately. We caught up over lagers and fish and chips.

Andy gets around on two prosthetic legs, but that can become very painful, so he also uses a chair. And he pushes that chair down the street with one hand and one prosthetic arm with a ridge in it.

Over dinner he tells me Brits are prone to moaning about things, then how he can always find someone "worse off" than he is to be inspired by.

Then I took a spin in his chair. Literally, a spin. That's what happens when you've got only one hand pushing one wheel.