left out

The world was not made for one-handed girls. Or boys, for that matter. Case in point: mittens are not sold by singles. As you may be aware, most mittens, gloves, or other hand fashions are sold by the pair.

Thus, as a one-armed girl, I have a constant collection of unused lefties that live in a box or a basket somewhere in the house, while their counterparts get regular use. I am reminded of this now that it's starting to get cold again, and I decided to bring out the never-used lefties for some fresh air. I think they appreciated it.

You may notice that all of the pictured gloves are fingerless. There is no deeper meaning for this, I just find them utilitarian; I like to have my fingers handy.

I don't mind paying for a pair of gloves, only to use one; it just doesn't seem right that one of the pair should get no use at all, packed away with no purpose. But what's a one-handed gal to do?

And what becomes of the left out mitts? I honestly couldn't say; out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. Eventually the right mitt is worn out or lost, and one day digging through boxes, I may come across the other, brand new and clean as the day it was bought. But most likely, it is just forgotten forever, never given a use, never needed.

Like my right mittens, I've been living life singly for some time. I am without pair, you might say. I've been single for so long, actually most all my life, that it seems very normal to be just one. There was a time when I imagined I'd pair up in college as my parents had. Then I planned to marry at twenty-eight because I would be old enough to be situated in a career, but still young. Now in my thirty-second year, I'm telling myself that people who marry in their forties are certainly more self-actualized; it keeps me from developing a nervous twitch.

In fact, I've never much thought of myself in the context of a pair. And when I find myself in a paired situation, though excited by the prospect, I always feel a bit uncomfortable because it doesn't seem to quite fit. I often feel like a character in a book or movie: "the girlfriend." I'm taken home and introduced to friends, but I can never shake the sense that it's all make believe, that we'll soon be taking our bows and the curtain will drop.

A couple years ago, I bought a pair of leopard print fingerless gloves at Target. This was because they were the only pair of fingerless gloves they had, and not because I am particularly fond of animal prints. But I've been persistently complemented ever since because of it. One day, a middle aged clerk at Staples remarked how much she liked my glove. Suddenly inspired, I ran out to my car, fetched the left leopard glove, ran back inside, and gave it to her.

"Here you go," I said, much to the woman's surprise, and I'm sure amusement of the other patrons. I wonder where that glove is today. I hope it had a better life than it would have in my glove box.

Several years ago, I felt, for the first time in my life, a lack of partner. I'd reached, by complete accident, a contented state which can usually only be attained when some dreams die and you find in yourself what can never be lost; and the only thing left to do is share it.

It occurs to me that we are made for pairing. Maybe not because we need to have a mate. Not because we cannot be alone, but because, in coming together, we allow each other to be of use. In allowing yourself to be loved, you allow another to love. To me, this makes beautiful sense.

So where's my other single? I suppose I'm waiting for the right fit. I'm sure my scene is coming up, even if it is in the second or third act. In the mean time, if you know someone with one left hand, have I got a box full of gloves and a proposal for him...

OneArmGirl

what happened to my arm

I'd just started two loads of laundry at the local mat, sat down to mind my own business of reading Tom Robbins' Another Roadside Attraction, when the woman sitting two seats down said:

"What happened to your arm?"

Let's just stop there for a moment. This question, this basic, yet strangely puzzling question has been posed to me so many times in my life, it's afforded great opportunity for analysis. I will here unload a lifetime of said question-inspired pondering.

"What happened to your arm?" The question itself actually presupposes that something happened, that my arm was acted upon in some way or, as I've concluded is more likely the case, is presumed missing altogether. In fact, there is no logical way for me to answer that question as stated. As far as I know, nothing "happened" to my left arm, it just developed as it is along with the rest of my body, and here we are. And if the questioner is suggesting a post-natal occurrence, I wonder if they suspect I was the victim of a magic trick gone awry.

Therefore, when asked what happened to my arm, I am tempted to answer simply, "Nothing." Judge and see if that is not the proper response. I am also tempted to say, "I lost my arm in a climbing accident," as my best friend once told her younger brother, to which he responded with sympathy and solemnity, "Really?" This one incident tells me that logic is not always necessary to assuage curiosity.

Yet, consistently, this is the exact question posed, with exactly that phrasing, over and over again. There is one derivation; I am sometimes asked how I broke my arm, but that is even more of a brain boggle. Has anyone ever known, in the history of the world, of one case in which a broken arm turned into a much smaller fin with three webbed fingers? Sorry to get so graphic there, but it was necessary. I have to say, at least, that I am impressed with the open-mindedness which I sometimes discover. Apparently, some people still believe that indeed anything is possible.

However, in my experienced reality, I find it more practical to answer the essence of the question rather than the literal implication. [No, I did not study philosophy in college because it made my brain hurt; I chose the lesser of two evils and went with English Literature, which makes my brain hurt a little less.] So, to answer "What happened to your arm?," I always say with a smile, "Oh, I was just born that way." 

But I digress. Back to the local laundromat. Here is where the story takes an unexpected turn....

The woman then said, "Can I see it?"

Ok, a little unorthodox, but I don't put up much of a fight. I opened my jacket buttons and pulled Finneas out, holding him out on my palm like a minnow fish platter.

"Can I touch it?," she asked.

Well, we've come this far...

"Oh, it's so cute!," she cooed, stroking Finneas with her index finger.

She was so excited, when her washing partner returned, she asked him, "Hey, did you see her arm? It's so cute." She then coaxed me to show him. I obliged, of course.

Now, believe it or not, comes the bizarre part of the story.

"Do you have any makeup?," she asked.

Ask me about my arm. Ask to touch my person. But a total stranger asking to borrow my makeup? That's where I draw the line. Thankfully, I'm not the sort of girl to carry makeup on my person. Plus, there's really no need for it at the laundromat where there was a guy literally doing his washing in his boxers, presumably because he'd run completely out of clean trousers.

After my admirers went outside for a smoke, I smiled a stifled giggle, shaking my head. Ironically, I suddenly felt very normal. But I have to say, for all the times I've repulsed onlookers and sent babies screaming to their mommies, it's gratifying to know some people see with different eyes; emphasis on the different.

Aren't we all just another roadside attraction?

But the next time someone asks what happened to my arm, I'm gonna say a miniature Chihuahua Terrier chewed it off.

It could happen.

OneArmGirl

supergirl

Every kid has a superhero phase. Well, not every kid. I didn't.

My sisters and I were too busy playing Holocaust concentration camp survivors. There were no spandex, cutout felt letters, or capes involved. When we played, we meant business. And may I remind you, abnormality does not a superhero make.

And so, though I was planning to write a very thought-provoking analysis of the laws of attraction to physical difference and their moral implications....yawn...(but really, I was), I've actually spent the better part of today turning myself into a superhero. And it was a lot more fun.

I proudly introduce to you...

Faster than a speeding bullet (until she needs a nap), more powerful than a locomotive (in her own mind), able to leap tall buildings with a single bound (occasionally in her sleeping dreams)...OneArmGirl to the rescue! Ahem, with her trusty sidekick Finneas by her side of course...literally, never leaves her side...and he was most incensed that he was censored by a cape in the above depiction.

Super OneArmGirl came into existence this week because of OneArmBoy who suggested we join forces to combat evil. At least, that's what I assume he was implying. We are currently recruiting other handicapped superheroes, but they tend to stay well under the radar, as you might imagine. They can be very difficult to detect because most are expert at anonymity. It's one of our greatest powers.

In the mean time, I will just continue to play dress up in my living room and get carried away on my imagination, the most important superhero power.

 

Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."

OneArmSuperGirl

digital debut

Not long ago, I had occasion to dig up some baby pictures of myself. Actually, I had occasion to call my mom and ask her to dig them up, scan them, and email them to me. But one of the results of my photo journey to the past was a happy reunion with this:

A photo taken of me at one year. It's a favorite, I think mostly because it makes me laugh. Notice my left leg tucked under the dress, creating the illusion that I am missing both an arm and a leg on that side. I'd like to think this was an early sign of a career in comedy.

I did usually keep one leg pulled back, using the other leg to pull myself along the floor instead of crawling. At least I had some diaper padding to scoot on; well, a cloth diaper...my parents were hippies.

But just look at those eyes and tell me there wasn't some mischief afoot. It's like she knows, one day, Joey will bite her arm.

OneArmGirl

strong arm

Apparently, my body has decided now is a prime opportunity to get all sorts of toxins out, and yesterday morning I found white spots on my tonsil. So, here I sit, writing with about half a brain cell. The other cells are too busy contemplating the meaning of their own existence, and are taking a sick day.

But like so many other times when I think I've finally reached the end of my material, something comes along just in time. Today it came via Netflix, in the form of a documentary on professional arm wrestling. Turns out, until just a few years ago, a quiet and unimposing American by the name of John Brzenk was the undefeated world champion in his middleweight class, and known for beating heavyweight champions as well.

The film follows Brzenk and his two most serious, and much younger competitors, Alexy Voevoda from Russia, and Travis Bagent from West Virginia. I'm not surprised to see top level competition coming out of Russia, a country that produces top athletes like a college education produces debt. But I had no idea my very own country dominated in the sport of arm to arm combat.

I'm rather surprised I actually watched the documentary at all. Just this week, after my first lesson in disc golf, I was reminded what little interest I generally have in sports requiring heavy arm use. I avoid volleyball like the plague and the only thing I find interesting about golf is the carts. I've been known to challenge guys to arm wrestle, and I can put up a good fight, but the average man usually beats me; or lets me win.

A few minutes into the film, I'd completely forgotten how silly I think arm wrestling, and weight training in general. I was nearly holding my breath with each match. I felt like I knew these three men, and I was developing definite preferences. 

After my second vaulting class last week in over a year, I was barely able to reach my right arm behind my back because it was so sore. My arm is stronger than average, but definitely not used to lifting my body weight onto a moving horse. After several attempts, we decided to call it a day.

"It has to be in the jump and strength of my legs," I brainstormed with the coaches, "I can't afford to over-use my arm." But the next few days reminded me that it doesn't take much.

The interesting thing about arm wrestling is how an athlete's whole worth is determined by the strength of one arm. It all comes down to that one body part. Although, watching the difference in demeanor of the strong men, it becomes clear that, as with anything, physical strength is just the part you see. Bagent was louder, more of a showman, using verbal intimidation. But Brzenk was quiet, reminding you of the boy next door, and Voevoda seemed an intuitive, Taoist fable-quoting, gentle giant.

Strong-arming it

In the end, Brzenk, at the age of forty, once again defeated all his middleweight competition. And although Bagent had previously defeated Voevoda in the heavyweight class, Voevoda reclaimed his title. So it came down to the final match between Brzenk and Voevoda.

I was nervous, focused as I could be while drugged with cold medicine. The first go was a bust because their hands slipped. But on the second try, Voevoda pulled Brzenk from his long-held rank to become the undefeated world champion. 

As much as I liked Brzenk's unassuming demeaner, and I liked him a lot considering I'd never even heard his name before, I was happy for Voevoda, because just being Russian can't be easy. And apparently, the ladies aren't that impressed with physical prowess: "The Russian women, they want money," Voevoda says shyly.

Trivia tidbit: Bagent's father, a strong man in his own right, said he was first inspired to begin arm wrestling by a man who only had one arm, the other having been amputated, or "cut off" as he put it. But I don't think I'll train for the sport, because even though I may have an edge, it seems a little masochistic when you don't really have an arm to spare.

But I am going to keep trying to get up on that horse, and I certainly have more respect for arm wrestling. I have to admit, I hold to a paradoxical double standard:

I like men with strong arms.

OneArmGirl

un-clusion

I spoke too soon. The day after last week's post, I woke up with a swollen throat and a heaviness that tells me the glass ceiling is going to be lower for a while. I phoned to cancel the day's plans before I got out of bed.

Most basically, that's what it's about, living with chronic illness. And it happens to me a lot because, even though I know I have to pace myself, my desire and drive inevitably gets the best of me, and I overdo. 

I get up to boil an egg for breakfast because I need protein, but something small and easy to digest or the burning will get worse. I make coffee too, because I can only handle so much deprivation. Then I consider what I am going to do with a day in which I should do nothing at all. Have you ever considered the difficulty of doing nothing? I say without hesitation that it is one of the most difficult things I have ever attempted, and after seven years of practice, I'm still an amateur.

I try to excite myself with promises of a whole day to catch up on new iPhone apps, or lose myself in a season of Parks and Recreation, or pick up that book I've been eying with envy for weeks without a page turned.

But I probably won't do any of those things because inevitably I realize I don't even use the apps I have now, that my smart phone is probably smarter than I; and I hate that groggy feeling of wasting hours watching Netflix offerings; and reading takes more mental energy than I can afford.

So I putter about, trying to find something that even a zombie could manage, but when I have a bad day like this (or two or four), I'm consumed by apathy and if I actually start something, I find it impossible to concentrate, and I'm without energy to finish.

I try to rest, but it's too late, I'm already in the burn zone when my body is quivering with energy it doesn't actually have. I'm baking from the inside out. And my mind is spinning with all the things on my desk, the completion of which suddenly seems very urgent. Lying in bed, I feel myself falling backward, hundreds of papers with scribbled writing topics and phone call reminders floating down on top of me. I actually feel guilty for being sick, again.

Friends call wanting to hang out and when I say "I'm not feeling well today," they say, "Oh, sorry. Is there anything I can do?" But there isn't anything they can do, so I go back to bed wishing more people knew how to do nothing, with me.

It's better than it used to be. I've come a long way and a few years since that first phone consultation with Dr. N. I've had a lifestyle overhaul. I'm not doing what I used to do, not making nearly as much money, and sometimes a ride on my bike and an afternoon nap feels like a very full day.

The adjustments hurt and chaffed at first, but gradually I changed, not just my pace, but my entire direction. I started doing more writing and less editing. I stopped taking sunsets for granted. And so changed my dreams. Most days I don't even think about who I used to be because I really like who I am.

I get up and go outside. Sitting on my front stoop, the warmth of the sun quiets the voices that say I need to be productive. When I was still baby-stepping into this season of my life, I learned there is no faster-acting medicine than a walk out of doors.

Six months after my diagnosis, I was sorting through old keepsakes and happened upon a picture of my college friend Amy and me. We were dressed up, I wearing a skirt and prosthetic arm under a deep blue collared shirt. But what struck me was the anticipation emanating from our faces--we were hungry for life. Looking at the photo, I suddenly remembered what it was like to be happy.

In a burst of desire and tears of relief, for the first time in a long time, I thought, "I want to live!"


OneArmGirl

[handicap #3, part 4 of 4]

circus season

We interrupt this string of rather bleak posts to remind you that we still prefer to have fun on this blog. And by 'we,' I refer to myself and my contingent of hook-armed rabbits. If you haven't read about the hook-armed rabbits unearthed a few years back in my grandparents basement, you should do so now. It is well worth your while.

[I am suddenly struck by the strangeness of the phrase 'well worth your while'. What does it mean, anyway? What is my while and how does one determine its worth. A more skilled speaker of the English language, please advise.]

But speaking of hook-armed rabbits, Ferb and Mrs. Ferb (sadly, still nameless due to my shameless laziness and adult onset memory loss--someone did suggest a good name and I forgot it), have recently had a wardrobe change. Now that Ferb has discovered Finneas' custom-designed mitten fits his arm perfectly, I'm not sure we'll be able to get it away from him.

Autumn is well underway and I've got the itch. I want change, something different. I want to be reminded that I'm alive, and Little Gen flushing the toilet while I am in the shower, causing an unannounced 20 degree change in water temperature, just isn't going to cut it. I'm hungry to move and stretch and grow.

So I did what everyone would do, I went to an aerial fabrics class. What is aerial fabrics, you ask? Can I say 'gymnastics on fabric'? Imagine a huge ribbon of fabric hanging from the ceiling, on which a person climbs, hangs, spins, and generally makes gravity appear inconsequential. I personally was barely able to get my feet off the ground, and my arm is still sore. And in case you are wondering, no, this is not something that people with chronic fatigue generally get into, but I am, apparently, a glutton for punishment.

But once I managed to get on the fabric, I did attempt, and nearly achieve one of the more difficult maneuvers of spinning and pulling my legs into a sitting position. And of course, everyone was very impressed. If you've got one arm, it doesn't take much.

In a move of excitement and poor scheduling, I am also going to my first vaulting class this week in over a year. Suffice it to say, I should be well on my way to spending the weekend in bed. But now I am curious to know, in addition to horses and fabric, on what else one might do gymnastics. This exploration may require an entirely new blog...

But maybe this overindulgence in recreational activity will take care of the itch, and I can go back to pumpkin spice lattes and English muffins with raspberry, ginger and red chile jam. If you have not tasted Heidi's raspberry, ginger and red chile jam, consider yourself deprived. Thanks to cousin D for my introduction this past summer. I bought three jars at the grower's market last weekend.

What I should be thinking about is finishing up my nearly finished book proposal and getting a query letter in the mail, or email in this case. I've decided to approach an agent in Massachusetts, where coincidentally, Boo alerted me this week, a man has recently had arm transplants. That's right, somebody's generously donated arms were surgically attached to his stubs. Talk about a fingerprinting nightmare.

I would like to ponder this phenomenon at length, but between horse dancing and fabric gymnastics, I simply have no time for transplanted appendages.

OneArmGirl