swimwear saga

I have a dilemma. I am going swimming this evening and I'm not sure what to wear. Where's the dilemma, you ask? Here it is: to bikini or not to bikini. As I once suggested to my friend Kristen, yes, I have privileged problems.

But it's more complicated than that. About a month ago, and Little Gen will gleefully attest to this, I suddenly noticed that my tummy was getting, well, a little more tummyish. Ok, maybe it's not a Goodyear tire yet, but it's becoming a good bicycle tire, with a definite crease right through my belly button––a bit of a pooch, as they say. I was taken aback, uncomfortable and unsettled by this development. Most of my friends just rolled their eyes or said, "Well it's about time!"


I am well aware that women of my age, and many women younger than I, are well-acquainted with the tummy. And after pregnancy, forget it; at least that's what I hear. But I've been blessed with some kind of natural super metabolism, because in college, I never gained the freshman fifteen. And now, well into adulthood, I'm still considered by most to be slender in stature and slight on the scale.

So waking up one day to a tummy that I had heretofore not noticed, initiated, and I kid you not, an identity crisis greater than any caused by having only one arm. Oh my gosh, I'm not beautiful anymore, next thing you know I'll be middle-aged, and no one will ever want to be with me, ever, I thought. Then I drank a glass of low fat milk and tried to pull myself together. It worked because the low fat milk was so disgusting, I completely forgot about my tummy.

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I've been swimming in public since I was small, but at some point, around puberty no doubt, I got self-conscious about my arm. I started to wear a white t-shirt over my swimsuit, all the time, every time I went to the pool. I wore it so consistently, it became a permanent fixture in my swimming bag. If I had to take the white tee off at any point during the swimming excursion, I felt naked, exposed to eyes that saw me for who I really was.

But swimming with the t-shirt was irritating, like being stuck in a spider web under water. And it was a huge hassle to wash and dry it afterward. So one day, I don't remember which, I just stopped wearing it. I was sick of the enslavement. I took off the tee and jumped into the pool web free.

Now, some years later, I'm not looking back. It was an uncomfortable transition, of course, but not nearly as uncomfortable as wearing the shirt. I actually can't believe I ever subjected myself to that. Of course I still feel awkward being suited to bathe in public, but who doesn't? And now, it's more of a proud awkwardness: "Yeah, I have one arm and I'm swimming, what's it to you?"

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The tee is long gone now. I think the last time I saw it was when my cousin Dylan ended up wearing it one night after we'd had a few--the same night he tried on one one of my sports bras. Anyhew...

Last summer, I went on a serious shopping expedition for a bikini––a huge transition in itself due to my conservative upbringing and a niggling awareness that a bikini is merely colorful underwear, yet somehow socially acceptable in public. But after months of searching, I'd found nothing suitable (ha ha ha, suitable!) Ahem. So, I bought a one-piece suit of a hot pink shade, I'm not sure why.

But I still longed for a bikini, in the way only a girl who's been denied that sort of liberation with her own body can. And no, I don't think Hooters is a place to explore female empowerment. Then, long after I'd given up hope, I stumbled upon a sale, and a bikini that I liked. Unfortunately, due to limited inventory, it was about one size too big. But it was $15, which in bikini world, you might call a heck-a-va deal. So, I bought it.

I wear the bikini, t-shirt free, which is about the most liberated I can get--though I have to wear it circulation-constricting tight to make sure it stays on. And I'm always slightly nervous that wearing an over-sized and water-logged bikini isn't the smartest of decisions. And now I have the bicycle tire to think of. This might be enough to send me back to the (shudder) stone age t-shirt era––just when I was starting to enjoy my body. The only consolation is that when I dive in and my suit remains on the surface of the water, no one will be looking at my tummy! 

So much for late-bloomers.

OneArmGirl 

risky business

Confession #1: when I use a public toilet, I don’t put any paper down on the seat. I just sit right down on the apropos horse shoe...in restaurants, gas stations, wherever. I used to put paper down as my mother taught me, but at some point, I just decided life was too short to go around wrangling toilet tissue that wants to go anywhere and everywhere but stay on the seat. So, I stopped. It’s just a risk I’m going to take. Thankfully, my grandmother is no longer on this earth to see what I’ve become.

Confession #2: for the last nine weeks, I’ve been taking a modern dance class at a local studio. I first heard about Keshet from my good friend, Natalie, who also happens to be an exceptional dancer. The company offers integrated dance classes, putting handicapped and able-bodied dancers together on stage. Last year, I went to see their yearly production of Nutcracker on the Rocks, featuring sugar plum fairies gliding across the stage in wheelchairs. Other dancers sailed on the backs of chairs, legs and arms extended in a graceful lift. 

When I saw this, I got that little thrill I always get just above my belly button when I see something important and good happening in the world. I want to be a part of this, I thought. 

But it wasn’t until I got back from India in the Spring, wanting and needing a change, that I thought of Keshet again. Cassie, the newest resident at the farm, just happened to be taking a class there, so I decided to drop by and check it out. I watched from the sidelines and I saw a number of dancers, like Cassie, using wheelchairs, but no one-armed girls. So, I perused their summer class schedule and settled on beginning modern.

But I was so nervous, I wanted to turn my car around the whole way over to the first class. Not much has changed since I was a little girl going to beginning ballet, just the thought of a leotard loading my stomach with butterflies on steroids. Thankfully, no leotard was required for this class, and walking in the building, my adult self reminded me that I was more self-confident now, and whatever happened, it wasn’t such a big deal.

Then I nearly died of exhaustion in class. I could have had a water bottle strapped to my chin and still suffered dehydration, I got so thirsty. And I had to cancel riding lessons the next day because my body refused to get out of bed.

But each week gets incrementally better, and moving my body reminds me that I have a body again, and that using it just for the sake of enjoying movement is more necessity than luxury.

Though the class is open to people of all abilities, it is not specifically integrated. I’m the only one in the class with an obvious handicap, but the demographic is wide, with some who have never danced before to others, like me, who are easing back in. We come in all shapes and sizes, mostly adults, a few younger dancers, and one guy. Why is there always one guy in dance class?

I’m actually doing pretty well. I have a natural turnout of nearly 180˚...before I fall over. If you don’t know what a turnout is, please just move on. Remember, life is short. Every class starts with core strengthening; apparently my core has been on vacation for some time because it would rather have a Corona under an umbrella than do more than one sit up.

“You can’t stop before you start,” my friend Lori, who also happens to be Natalie’s mom, reminds me on a recent coffee date. This in response to my often disabling fears of new ventures. I realize how many times I talk myself out of trying something new because I might not be able to handle it, I might have to quit.

“If you quit, you quit,” Lori says, “It doesn’t mean you failed; it means you tried something new.” I took the risk, I think.

Cassie's first ride

On Monday evening, without planning or preparation, we decided to put Cassie on the horse for her first ride. I’d been brainstorming the logistics of this for months, and I certainly wasn’t sure it was possible given our limited number of hands and our largish horse. But I looked two support staffers in the eye and said, “This is possible. We will do this.”

And several attempts, lots of pushing and pulling, and at least two strained backs later, we did. Cassie, who spends little time out of her chair, was on the back of a horse. She was riding around the arena. And most importantly, she was smiling.
 
I don't know what will happen next...it’s just a risk I’m going to take.

OneArmGirl   

batter up

In the same sports writing vein as my bowling post, I now continue with a short story of one-arm batting. Apparently all it takes to get the sports juices flowing is having a guy in your house for a while––in this case, an Indian guy who's never played baseball, but loves cricket. No offense to all the sporty ladies who need no such motivation.

And so last night, in the spirit of American summer fun, we went to the batting cages. It seems appropriate if I here tell you that, as a child, I was a remarkably good pitcher. We have the home video to prove it. We also have footage of me swinging a huge orange plastic bat. Incidentally, the same video shows evidence that I used to sport a white girl fro. Eventually my parents fitted me with a nice lefty glove which I still have. The orange bat is no longer with us.

But though I have warm fuzzy feelings about baseball, even if i can't stay focused enough to watch a whole game, my talent was never really nurtured, so I probably missed an opportunity to become the first female major league pitcher; with one arm no less. The closest I ever came was dating a pitcher for some time.

My good aim, however, did later come into play. When I was diagnosed with scoliosis, I was told that one of the symptoms is not being able to throw a ball accurately. When someone tells you something is wrong with your body, it's nice to be able to say, a little haughtily, "Actually, my aim has always been quite good." If I had only known I would be balancing atop a horse in the not so distant future.

However, it's been a long time since I "played," so pulling into the the parking lot of the batting cages, I was conscious of being out of my element. Asif and Opie got in the cage first, starting with the slower pitches and progressing to faster speeds. Asif even held his own at 70mph. I wasn't feeling any more comfortable. Little Gen was next, though I'm not sure if she was having more fun batting or wiggling her butt.

After some deliberation, it was decided I would try a slow baseball pitch. I entered the chain link fence, the spotlight, and waited for the first pitch. Clunk went the machine and out came the first ball...

I don't think I scored any home runs, but I actually hit most of the balls. Plunk, plunk, plunk, all jitters behind me, I started to get into it....my confidence rising with each hit. Before I knew it, I was floating on a one-arm batter's high. I could hear the crowd. And my arm is no worse for the wear this morning, though I think I still prefer throwing the ball to having it thrown at me.

But I'll leave the major leagues for some other one-armed girl to pitch into. I'm satisfied with the occasional Sunday evening game. Asif, on the other hand, could have a new career ahead of him.

My high was only slightly deflated when a small girl passing by the bench stopped short to look at Finneas. "That sucks," she pronounced after my standard explanation. "I think it's cool," I countered. "I think it sucks," she said. When I proposed that she give my small arm a pat, she refused saying, "It's scary."

Oh well, can't win 'em all.

OneArmGirl 

e-love

Just another Tuesday night, I'm looking through my fifty plus new eHarmony matches, weeding and deleting. Sorry, 'archiving,' which makes me feel as though I'm sending the guys to be filed in a stuffy basement library run by old men wearing sweater vests.

I haven't actually logged into my eHarmony account since last December when I opened it. I've been too scared.

The first time I tried to open an account with eHarmony, after filling out the extensive questionnaire, and waiting for the calculating or sorting or whatever secret process eHarmony conducts in five seconds, I was sent back the message "Sorry, you are unmatchable at this time."

Unmatchable? And that only took five seconds? Geez, this is worse than I thought. Granted, I was going through a rough bout at the time and may have answered the question "How often do you feel depressed" by ticking "Most of the time"...

Nothing like being rejected by eHarmony to boost your spirits.

Truthfully, online dating intimidates me. When I finally finished the 'application' process, got accepted, and was in, I suddenly found myself in a whirlwind of men coming into my inbox with impressive resumes demonstrating high marks on our twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility. Seven new matches every time I logged in!––How's a girl supposed to handle that?

Even in our times of telecommunication, eHarmony was not a natural step for me. I used to disdain the concept of internet dating. It seemed too intentional, too obvious. I'm no denier of the importance of compatibility, but at the end of the day, I'm a romantic, wanting something about love to be magical and unexpected. Unlike most everything else in life, I've always been strangely relaxed about love, trusting that the right one will be there at the right time.

I've never been a big fan of e-communication, in which we have the freedom to say and do things we'd maybe never say or do face-to-face. It offers the illusion of relationship, when the reality is much messier, visceral, and complex. OK, so you have 400 Facebook friends, but how many of them have your back when you've got bigger issues than what to comment on that Akon video that Johnny Johnson posted on his wall.

It also occurs to me that an online profile, much like a resume, is really only a list of the parts of a person. At best, it offers a hint of the whole. I'm all for full disclosure in dating, but when I list my one-armedness, it feels like just another disconnected part, a strange bit of trivia. Can you really get a sense of the person without seeing the whole? Chemistry doesn't seem email-able.

Yet the benefits of having some of the dating legwork done for you can't be denied. I often feel too tired for the dating scene. I want to skip ahead to when we sit in twin rockers on the porch till death do us part. So, these days I'm much more open to blind dates and being set up by friends. And I can't help but see how arranged marriages can cut out the stress of finding yourself on a date with a guy who shows up in a kilt and expects you to drive (true story I heard recently). Not that I have anything against kilts.

I opened an eHarmony account in December more out of curiosity than anything else. I wanted to see who I was matched with and whether or not it lined up with the kind of person with whom I thought I was compatible. Turns out, I have a lot in common with PhDs who enjoy the opera and lumberjacks who can't live without their dog. Great, I could have told you that before we started. I didn't, however, expect to be so compatible with Asians and Pacific Islanders.

But I have yet to commit. I'm still not paying for my eHarmony account, which means I can't actually communicate with my matches. And after thirty minutes of reading twenty different top three things they can't live without, I'm starting to have trouble telling any of them apart, and I just want to go to bed.

I'm coming around, slowly. I think looking for love online is a valid option. But I'm still not sure it's for me. I've always believed no matter how large or small the pond, the right fish is swimming somewhere in it, and I'd much rather just happen to meet under the same water lily.


OneArmGirl 

learning to breathe

Astride my bicycle at a red light, I reached back to scratch my back and somehow hooked my, admittedly large, turquoise ring on the beaded strings that hung from the back of my tee shirt. Ok, I thought, no biggie, I just have to unhook whatever's been hooked. I moved my arm left and right, expecting the ring to quickly dislodge itself from my clothing, but after a few seconds of this, I was still tangled. I twisted my hand more vigorously. Nothing. That's when I started to panic. I clawed at the ring with my remaining fingers desperately whilst thinking how absolutely ridiculous this was, yet no less horrifying. What was I going to do when the light changed? I had no hands! My tee shirt was effectively martial-arts-style strong-arming me. I couldn't ride my bike without arms. If I managed to get off the bike without falling over, what then? Was I supposed to fling my torso over the handlebars and try to walk the bike, steering with my chest. Would I have to find some stranger and ask politely, "Excuse me, but I seem to have found myself in a bit of a bind; would you mind detaching my hand from the back of my shirt?" That was so mortifying it didn't actually occur to me.

Unnecessary goal achievement

What did occur to me was that I was on my way to the zoo to meet a cute guy I hadn't seen for a year, a guy I'd been waiting excitedly to see for some time...did I mention he was cute?...Is that how it would go down?––I would nonchalantly stroll up to him, hip popped to one side, arm twisted behind my back, pretending to be a contortionist? I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. But just as I was moving into panic over my own stupidity, suddenly the beads released my ring, and my hand slipped free. The light turned, and putting foot to pedal, I was on my merry way. 

I wish I could say this was one isolated incident. But in fact, just a few nights before, I was sitting shotgun when I attempted to exit the vehicle only to discover that the strap on my purse had become entangled with the very same treacherous tee. Did I wash the shirt between wearings? Wouldn’t you like to know. Fortunately, in this case, Asif, who was sitting behind me, kindly responded to my pathetic whining and disentangled me. 

Getting entangled in your own tee shirt may not be a big deal to those of you prone to random klutziness or unhappy accidents. I am not. I’ve spent my life (mostly subconsciously) learning to be careful and precise. My fear was that any wayward movement or spill might be attributed to my handicap––people would say “Oh, must be because of her arm.” What my friend Michelle once called gracefulness, I call calculated movement. Specificity became my craft, and I perfected it. Whenever I do anything, particularly in front of people, it is efficient, deliberate, precise. Timing and balance are key­­––from turning a baby in my arm to opening a door with my foot while balancing any number of things on my knee.

In recent years, I’ve discovered this obsession with specificity has a side effect. When I am concentrating on a particular task, even pouring milk in cereal, I often hold my breath. This could be for two possible reasons: breathing creates a variable of movement that introduces space for mistakes, or I’m concentrating so hard, I simply forget to breathe. In almost anything I do, there comes a moment where something is suspended, book or baby, balanced between where it was and where it is going, when just a breath could cause a disastrous miscalculation. 

My life is a dance in which command of basic physics and spacial awareness is second nature. At this point, I couldn’t act haphazardly if I tried. So you might understand why finding myself tangled in my own clothes atop a bicycle was somewhat disconcerting. It wasn't in the blueprint; but then, beads rarely are.

But what you really want to know is whether or not I ever made it to the zoo. I did. And I met the cute guy, though just as he walked up, I discovered blood from a razor cut had run and dried down my leg. Hot. Thus, in the first few seconds of conversation, we greeted each other and then I said, “I think I’m bleeding.” To which he said, “Me too,” and pulled up his pant leg to reveal a large cut on his leg. 

Then we proceeded into the zoo, wherein I almost ran into a cement column while I was looking at a map, and later, nearly collided with and sat in the lap of an elderly woman in a wheelchair.

I’m a little concerned.

OneArmGirl

 

 

but what does it mean?

I would first like to set the record straight by announcing, much to the amusement of at least two of you, that I have never slapped any one or thing for any reason, though I imagine it's never too late. And as Joey so famously said, "It only takes one arm..."

More importantly, my lovely and dear Boo, friend and former roommate, is shortly moving thousands of miles from me to the Northeast, where her equally lovely husband is going to school. This is a much lamented event in my life. So much so, that I was forced to drink two beers and a glass of wine just to make it through our last evening together, at some point in the duration of which I may or may not have been sitting on her lap. 

And so, in respectful salute to this separation, I here publish a magazine clipping that Boo cut out once upon a time when she was scrap-booking our six months of living together.

I can tell you from experience that if someone scrapbooks time spent with you, then gives the scrapbook filled with memorable journal entries and funny clippings to you as a gift, it is love indeed. But when I saw this clipping, I knew beyond a doubt that Boo and I will forever be soulmates (is that redundant?)

But what does it mean? I've been entranced and disturbed and curious for several weeks now, pondering the significance of the above. Admittedly, I have some far-fetched ideas about things, but I feel as though I could spend the next six months just staring at this, pondering its wacky significance. But I don't have that kind of time...So I ask you, dear peruser of this ridiculous blog, what does it mean?

Or should I say, what does it mean to you? ;)

OneArmGirl 

Don't know about your local, but here in the dry, fire-ridden Southwest, hopes for fireworks are a bit hampered this year. So as I sit indoors, encased in air-conditioning, I would like to wish you a very happy 4th of July. Or for you non-Americans, just another day. Wherever your day takes you, may it be filled with merriment and plenty of shade.  As mentioned above, I will not be going anywhere without air-conditioning.

But if you have a moment between your coffee and a piña colada, I would like to ask a question. What do you want to know about OneArmGirl? I do my best to offer a well-rounded view of life here at OAG, but living here, it's hard to know what I've left out. Are there holes in my story? Have I mentioned something that you want 'fleshed out' as we writers say.

This is wide open, folks. Feel free to ask anything that tempts your curiosity, from 'How do you feel about online dating?' to 'Have you ever actually slapped someone with your little arm?' I may not, of course, answer all your questions here on the blog, but I need your help. Please help me.

Send all inquiries to OneArmGirl@gmail.com. Let's juice it up!

OneArmGirl