There is something exciting afoot. Or, more accurately, at hand.
You may recall a former post in which I outlined the two most disappointing things that I am unable to do as a one-armed girl. One of those two was putting a ponytail in my hair.
Shortly after the post was published, I got an email from my good college buddy Mike, who is now a professor of engineering at a college in the northwest. He asked if I would mind some of his students working on a solution to my ponytail dilemma.
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| Prehistoric prosthetic |
Mike previously spent a considerable amount of time studying something to do with engineering and rocket science––at least that's what I remember. I'm sure he will be disappointed at how much I was not paying attention when he was explaining it to me; it's just that most of the time when Mike tried to explain something to me, it sounded like "blah blah... engineering... blah blah blah." I was an English major––if he had explained it in terms of relational or plot development, we might have been on the same page. All I know is that I saw a picture of him floating weightless in an airplane.
So, I felt pretty special when he emailed. I mean, to think that helping a one-armed girl get a ponytail in her hair is a priority right up there with advances in rocket science. Take that, NASA. Maybe if you had put more money into something practical...I mean, how many people need to get to the moon and how many people need ponytails. It's not rocket science, people.
I, of course, gave my full permission to Mike's proposition, but then heard nothing more about it until this week, when one of his students emailed to say that he was on a team working on (what I choose to call) Project Ponytail.
This very professional sounding young man requested that I elaborate on the issue I am having; that being, putting a ponytail in my hair with one hand. So, in my best engineer-ese I explained the necessary requirements. I may have used words like "functionality" and "demographic." Apparently, I can parrot engineer-speak, if I can't understand it. I may have also used the phrase "resistance may be critical"... Thanks, Mike, for the years of exposure, from which I at least gained some skill in imitation.
If the team wasn't laughing from the beginning of my email, they certainly were when I suggested "consulting" other people with long hair requiring ponytails. Sometimes I have to shake my head at myself.
As I clicked 'Send,' I suddenly had flashbacks to a similar situation. I was having my last prosthetic arm built. Perhaps a bit more complicated than a ponytail-maker, but the custom design for the shoulder of the arm, specifically, took hours and days of fittings and adjustments. The resulting leather patch with a hole that rested atop my tiny shoulder was functional, and an amazing testament to the patience and persistence of my prosthetist. But it was a tiring and frustrating process nonetheless.
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| Blueprint |
Now I was imagining months of Skype consultations with seven engineers on my monitor, scrutinizing my scrunchy. If you don't know what a scrunchy is, good for you. And you obviously were not around for the '90s.
But I was immediately afraid that the task set before these poor youngsters was close to impossible. My prosthetic arm, which cost close to the price of a new car, is now living in the back of the closet with clothes I haven't even seen for years.
I suddenly thought of my helpful engineers, willing to take up my cause, as unsuspecting victims of the sort of physics dilemma that would make Einstein's head spin.
These students probably picked my project because they thought it would be easy. I mean, it's just a ponytail, right? Oh the naïveté! Little do they know Project Ponytail is going to make building wells in northwestern Africa look like a piece of cake.
But I received another email today, so it seems Project Ponytail goes forth. And now, I have to email all the hair gadgets I've tried over the years that ended up at the back of my closet with the fake arm. Maybe these guys (or girls) are less naive than I had feared. I hope I can be of some help.
Stay tuned...
OneArmGirl
It still feels very strange to be a girlfriend. Like I've stepped onto some foreign plane, where everyone else at the party seems to be perfectly at ease, greeting me with a cocktail and a congratulations. They seem happy to have me. But I can still feel the me before I came to couples' island. She seems a bit put out and confused, phantom paining like an amputated limb.
Or maybe I'm over-thinking this.
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| Pyromaniac's fix |
Obviously I am, because I haven't been thinking about my blog much at all. Sitting down today, I have no idea what to say––much like whenever someone asks me how my weekend was and suddenly I can't even remember my own name.
But speaking of Mountain Man, the first order of business is a name change. We tried this one on for size, but it didn't quite fit, like many of the shirts in his closet.
"I like the post, it just sounds weird to be called a 'man,'" he said.
"But you are a man," I protest, though I am well aware most men stop maturing at the age of sixteen.
But it's true, MM is more of a guy. Man conjures up images of John Wayne in a cowboy hat and chaps after a long cinematic cattle drive. Mountain Man is way too goofy and playful to keep up with that image. He wears an orange baseball cap and parachute pants like Bear Grylls––in fact, they are Bear Grylls' pants, shipped from the U.K.
So, he's a Mountain Guy. And it's a good thing because if I was dating The Duke, I'm pretty sure I would never stop laughing at the most inopportune moments; like when he tells me there's been an Indian raid on the other side of the mountain and I'd better stay inside and tend the fire while he goes to rescue the women and children from certain scalpings.
Speaking of tending fires, I spent a majority of the weekend at MG's mountain lodge, laying on a bearskin rug in front of an open fire, accompanied by a tame wolf and mountain lion cub. At least that's how I imagined it.
When I told MG that one of my fantasies was laying on a bearskin rug with a hunky dude in front of a fire, he laughed and said, "That's so cliché."
I decided not to tell him that I would also have a glass of pinot noir in my hand.
In reality, MG's 'lodge' sits near the end of a dirt lane with quite a bit of melting snow at the moment. In order to navigate said lane, one must embark on a perilous drive akin to some video games I've attempted (not successfully) to master.
Reality is kinder to me. When driving muddy dirt roads, speed is key so as not to get stuck in a sinking hole, combined with good judgement about which side of the road will best support your weight, and more than a hint of good old-fashioned chance-taking. The first time I attempted this feat, MG stood watching from his garage. Bastard.
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| New flame |
But after a couple days of this, it was becoming old hat. I started remembering another dirt road, from my childhood, which required similar navigational skills. I even started veering crossways over the muddy ruts in a lazy attempt to even things out, as my little Mazda became muddier and muddier.
And I really did sleep next to an open fire, guarded by Ivan the husky and a slightly potbellied cat called Mystery. I think the mystery is how a cat with such a saggy tummy can sprint up the stairs with such agility.
But there was no pinot noir, unless you count the carbonated stuff in the fridge; no bearskin rug as that might compromise MG's PETA sympathies; and no hunky man sleeping next to me, unless you count Ivan, who is so large he has to back out of small spaces because he can't (or won't) turn around.
Mountain Guy worked the night away grooming snow-covered slopes not so far away. And I dreamed about living in a place where crackling logs get to be mundane.
In the morning, MG comes in the door, wraps his arms around me with a kiss, and says, "I could get used to this."
And that's what I did last weekend. All in all, not a bad trade for phantom pains of lost singlehood.
OneArmGirl
*Transcription:
Me: "Hey Darcy, tell me again, what are you gonna do with my
little hand?"
Darcy: "I'm gonna put salt on it and eat it all up."
For more on this little darling, click here.
"So, do you only date guys with one arm, or will you also date two-armed guys?"
I smile. "Well, I usually only date one-armed guys, but I suppose I could make an exception."
And that was more or less the beginning. Three months later, we're still dating.
How did this happen? He says, "She threw herself at me." She says, "He wouldn't leave me alone." Honestly, I don't really know how it came about, but now, in what can only be described as an alien reality, I am someone's girlfriend.
But if I am going to be a girlfriend, I think I'm blossoming into the sort of girlfriend I'd like to be under his care. It started with a bouquet of wild flowers on our first date that his three lovely daughters helped to assemble.
I like to say I'm dating a Mountain Man. He makes snow for a living and he lives in the country. He owns a husky called Ivan. Need I say more?
When
the owner of Java Joe's asks if I have plans for New Year's Eve, I
feel ridiculously sheepish answering that I am going to surprise my
boyfriend at work. It's like the first time I went to buy alcohol
after I turned 21––I was certain the cashier knew I was an amateur.
But even an amateur girlfriend knows that when you have the opportunity to get kissed on New Year's Eve, in the dark, on top of a snow-covered mountain, you take it.
And that's why I find it kind of odd he actually believes that since he has to work, I'm just going to bed early. Obviously, he's never dated a one-armed girl before. Challenge is my middle name.
Mountain Man knows a thing or two about challenge, himself. He's had the sort of life that might inspire a Francis Ford Coppola film; something like Almost Famous meets The Godfather.
His mother married into the mob, literally, making MM the last in a line of same-named gangsters with a direct line back to Italy. I'd tell you which name, but I'd have to kill you.
But his mom escaped to the west coast when he was young, so MM grew up into more of a Bob Marley-loving stoner. He still talks of freeways with articles and begins too many sentences with "Hey, man..."
Around 9pm, I head east on "the" 40. At the end of MM's snow-packed lane, I call his cell.
"Hello?," he answers groggily.
"Hey. So, I was thinking about spending the night in a snowcat on the mountain..."
"Ok." He's fully awake now. "I have to get up and get ready and....do you want me to come get you?"
"Well, I'm at the end of your driveway, so it would be nice if you just let me in the gate."
"Shut up!"
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| Daybreak |
Though he's worked nearly everything from construction to film publicity, right now MM is happiest driving the spider-like snowcat, grooming ski runs all night for the following day. Sometimes he actually gets to ski the slopes that he combs.
As we crawl up the mountain, New Year's beers in hand, MM points out rough spots and icy patches. He's an artist in his precision. It can't be too slick or too bumpy; it has to be just right. MM has an eye for detail. I find a packet of tissues and chapstick in my vest pocket.
Mountain Man has a girl's needs in mind. He has to: he's singly caring for three daughters. This is one of the things I love most about him––though I frequently have to clarify to him that dating a father is not like dating your father.
At the top of the mountain, we leave the warmth of the snowcat and walk to the lookout on the other side. The city spreads out in twinkly lights.
[There may have been some kissing at this point, but I'll spare you the details...cliché never makes for good writing, anyway.]
I haven't stayed up all night since high school and I'm surprised I manage to keep awake despite the gentle rocking of the snowcat; though I wouldn't say I was awake, exactly. It was much more plausible that I was dreaming, in a spaceship with a single spotlight eye, hovering over the snow, passing trees made alive with dancing shadows.
Suddenly the indie station we're picking up from Santa Fe plays a song about a girl called Peg who only has one leg. MM and I look at each other. I can't argue this isn't one of many 'signs' MM sees on a daily basis. Though a sign of what, I couldn't say.
Everything is surreal, to use one of MM's favorite words. I've explained to him that if you describe most of your life as surreal, it kind of negates the definition. Then he tells me, "You know, you're pretty unique." Sigh.
I'm not sure how many times we stop for me to run into the woods and pee in three feet of snow; wondering how much time I have before MM or the resident mountain lion comes looking for me, not sure which of those two prospects is more terrifying. But long before I expect, the first day of 2012 is lighting the horizon.
Our shift is ending with the start of day. We make our way down the mountain, adding last minute touches to the masterpiece. A man skis past us, his dog running behind him. After bedding down the cat, we walk hand-in-hand to the parking lot.
I think I could get used to this girlfriend thing.
OneArmGirl
Little Gen brought this gingerbread woman home because one of her arms is shorter than the other...
She's politically correct like that. Actually, there are no gingerbread men or women at the restaurant where L.G. works; there are only gingerbread people, or ginger folk. So I don't know if this is a ginger man or woman or trans-gendered ginger because they are intentionally sexually ambiguous. Pink dress or pink toga, you be the judge.
But enough about cookies. Or are they yeast-free breads with a preference for sweetness? I'd hate to pigeon-hole anyone.
In other news, the one-armed girl has recently joined the local YMCA. And despite her severe aversion to the familiar song (and particularly the accompanying gestures) played at major sporting events, the indoor pool sealed the deal.
It's been a new adventure for me, this gym membership thing. Before this, the closest I'd ever gotten was a temporary complimentary gym membership that I got in the mail. I think I went twice.
My first day at the pool, I encountered a completely naked older woman in the showering room who informed me that I had just missed the aquatic aerobics class.
"Excuse me," I said, trying desperately not to look at the sudsy soap she was lathering in her lower regions.
[It should be here stated that I haven't had much experience with group showering. I was schooled at home where we were privileged with private bathing times, and when I did go to public school, I was excused from classes involving showers due to a back brace that I had to wear all day.]
There are times in life when I wish I weren't so approachable. Group showers are one such situation. However, understanding the concept, I attempt an Emperor's New Clothes mindset and soldier forth. Fortunately I've worn my fair share of hospital gowns and one might as well go naked, am I right?
Unfortunately, between the water in my ear and the echoing shower room, I had to advance toward Mrs. Lather to get the full story. I promised I would try to make the next class.
And the following Friday, true to my word, I arrived in time for the Silver Sneakers aquatic aerobics class. Imagine for a moment a pool full of retirees and me, the one-armed girl.
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| Christmas cookie icing |
I nod to Mrs. Lather who is warming up in the shallow end, but she doesn't appear to remember our shower room meeting.
As I make my way into deeper water, I encounter a group of ladies who rave about the upcoming class, but assure me that I can participate just as much as I want, or just bob around in the deep end if I feel like relaxing.
Angela, who appears much younger than me, leads our class with grace and the forgiveness of a kindergarten teacher, unwilling to let the talkers in the back keep us from our underwater leg figure eights.
Mrs. Lather offers helpful hints from time to time, like giving myself enough room and holding onto the side of the pool for balance. I tell her that I'm excited to work my abs because I've been taking an aerial fabrics class and she nods with raised eyebrows like she might if I'd just admitted to being a martian.
Getting out of the water, I could already feel my thighs aching. Turns out senior aquatic aerobics is just my speed. I've found my demographic.
It was much preferable to my next visit when I happened to get in the water just before a class of children who sat patiently around the pool awaiting their turn. When I reach the deep end of my lane, a small gathering of little girls grin from the side.
"What happened to your arm?"
"How can you swim with one arm?"
I smile back, suddenly envying the polar bears behind glass at the zoo because they never have to explain themselves. Some days, you just can't get out of the office.
"Well," I say...
OneArmGirl
My favorite Christmas carol is O, Holy Night. I decided this when I noted the lyrics, "Long lay the world/in sin and error, pining/Till He appeared/and the soul felt its worth...
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| Christmas time capsule |
It surprises me that suffering causes people to question the existence of God. Since I was small, it's been the other way around. It's always when I am most acutely hurting that I am most convinced of a greater source of compassion.
I don't remember the particular ailment, but I do remember sitting crumpled over on the toilet, my toes barely reaching the floor. I felt agony that my parents were powerless to alleviate. And I knew in that moment that I had need beyond human means to meet. I groaned for God because there was nowhere else to groan.
I
got sick frequently as a kid; bedridden sick, as my mom would say, from
earaches to tonsillitis. I was hospitalized at five for diarrhea-induced
dehydration. They attached me to an IV. We called him Harry. Harry went
everywhere with me, even to the toilet.
I was seven when I watched a man with cerebral palsy talk about how God called him to be a preacher. He spoke his story with awkward gestures in halting, varied pitch. It was one of the most painful and beautiful things I have ever seen. I wanted God to use me like that.
"Whatever you want me to do, wherever you want me to go," I promised through tears.
It wasn't till many years later that I began to understand what I was asking for. I'd become so competent at succeeding, I figured that's what God wanted, and I was handling it. Then, just when I was really getting started, it all fell apart. For more on this lovely time of my life, see previous posts. Suffice it to say, it was way beyond diarrhea.
I was pissed, and I'm not talking drunk, though that might have helped. Unfortunately alcohol was strictly forbidden for my recovery diet. One night, in a fit of frustration, I looked out the kitchen window into the dark.
"What are you doing to me?! I can't take it anymore. Say something, dammit!"
I waited. And then I heard it. Not audibly, thankfully, because as much as I wanted a sign, that would have scared the shit out of me.
"I love you." That was it. Well, thanks a hell of a lot, I thought.
Not long after that, a friend gave me a book called the Ragamuffin Gospel by Brennan Manning. It was early July and I was about to move back east, a complete failure as far as I was concerned. Also, I'd never been to the Grand Canyon. One of these wrongs was more easily righted. I jumped in the car with my mom and we set out to see, in my opinion, a huge hole in Arizona. I threw the Ragamuffin Gospel in the glove box.
"Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted," says Manning. That was exactly it; I'd confused Divine love with a mirror reflecting my shortcomings. Manning further quotes the Apostle Paul, "the Lord said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.'"
Sitting on the rim of the Grand Canyon, the sun setting on a red horizon, I felt minute, my decisions of small consequence next to such fathomless beauty. It was a lot like watching the preacher with cerebral palsy.
"How deep the Father's love for us/How vast beyond all measure..." cries the hymn. It didn't matter how far I fell, I would never reach the bottom of Grace.
Sometimes people come to the knowledge of God in a euphoric experience of enlightenment. I generally find God on the toilet. But really, when else are we more exposed, more vulnerable, more open to divine intervention?
But we'll never fully understand, not in this life, what happened on that Holy Night. The Son of God born into an animal feeding trough is about as crazy as power perfected in weakness, or a girl who found her calling in a missing appendage.
What I do know, is that my soul feels its worth.
OneArmGirl
