cowboy weak

I bought another book. My seeming total lack of self-control disappoints me. 

But this collection of short stories was irresistible: Cowboys Have Always Been My Weakness. Sigh. I hear ya, sister.

OneArmGirl and Lil Sis

When I was a girl, I could imagine no more romantic life than by the side of a charming, muscled wrangler. In my fantasy, his hat and our porch wrapped around.

I can't say that I've actually known any real cowboys. Except maybe Grandpa Switzer who, though he may have been a cowboy, was definitely not my grandpa.

Mr. Switzer was really a good family friend. When my dad was a boy, he would visit the Switzers and their horses in the mountains. When I was a kid, Grandpa Switzer put me in front of him on a horse, who promptly saw a white paper in the grass and started rearing up. But Grandpa Switzer held me in place and collected the horse before I had a chance to get scared.

One summer, Grandpa Switzer came to help my dad remodel the house; actually put a second story on the ranch style. Read: ranch style, not ranch. He had a thick Oklahoma accent and worked nearly non-stop all day without a bathroom break. One day he accidentally put his cowboy boot through the roof into the room below, to the great surprise of Little Gen, who's handle was then literal.

In many ways like the American cowboy, Grandpa Switzer seems timeless. I'm almost certain he hadn't changed a bit from my father's childhood to mine.

Entering adulthood, I put cowboy love aside. Raising cattle really takes a lot of work, I figured. Plus I had college and world wide fame to daydream about.

But now college is a distant memory; world wide fame a mirage. And I'm getting back to my roots. I put a lot of thought into which pair of jeans I put on each morning; I've developed a healthy appreciation for Bluegrass; and on any given day, I can be found shoveling manure. I'm becoming a wannabe cowgirl.

Car seat cowboy

So I couldn't help but note an abundance of cowboy references in my life this week. On Friday, I picked up The Onion horoscopes and read the forecast for Gemini: "You'll be roundly condemned by members of the Academy of Country Music when, despite their specific instructions, you let your babies grow up to be cowboys."

Two nights ago, I found myself out on the mesa, in a small white pickup, making out with my ex-boyfriend. What, like that never happens.

Between kisses, I tell him about the book. In the title story, this girl dreams about cowboys her whole life, then she goes to live on a ranch and a cowboy shows up that couldn't be closer to cliché. He has impeccable character, and muscles. They go dancing. They gaze at the stars. She's finally found her cowboy. On the day that she leaves, he rides after her car on his horse across the prairie to ask her to come back soon. But as she watches him ride away, she realizes that saying cowboys are her weakness is more about her identity than the cowboys; it's a story she's created to define herself.

"So, I'm your cowboy?" Mountain Guy says.

"You're not a cowboy!" I say.

"I could be a cowboy." He seems offended.

Then I had to pee, but there was nowhere to go, so I had to squat in front of his truck. Talk about a romantic cliché kill.

But I don't think I'm that into cowboys after all. Maybe I'm just weak for a boy, and my self-control has obviously gone on vacation. Or maybe I just like being that girl, the...

OneArmWannabeCowGirl  

post delay

Due to it being National Poetry Month and some related but unforeseen circumstances, today's post will be delayed. In the meantime, please enjoy this poem from a blog I stumbled on this week...

 

We Are All Born Lacking

This is a test of the OneArmGirl posting system....

...this is only a test. Had this been an actual post, you would have been entertained, then directed to proceed gleefully with your day.

wined, dined, and pooped

True to form, I got sick, sucked down into the Bermuda Triangle of activity clusters that comprised my weekend. Actually, I didn't even make it to Monday, but woke up Sunday morning and thought "uh-oh, this isn't good."

Strangely enough, not one bit of my packed weekend had scheduling conflicts. It just so happened that a vaulting conference started Friday morning, followed by the Friday night service at my church, then my fellow fabric dancing friend's birthday party in the mountains, where entertainment included a live blue grass band, aerial fabrics, and suspension--you know, where people hang from hooks in their skin.

Pretty much how I felt all weekend.

I only made it halfway through the band because I had to get up early to go back to the conference for a therapeutic vaulting clinic. I joined an MD and a PT to show other physical therapists how moving around on the back of a horse can be great for people with disabilities. This really boiled down to watching a group of middle-aged women jump onto a horse-sized barrel with iron handles. But they were game.

I did manage to squeeze a nap in Saturday afternoon before meeting my friend Heidi, who also happens to be Stubby's mom, for dinner and a performance by AXIS, a dance company based in Oakland that integrates disabled and able-bodied dancers. I was particularly moved by a piece called Color Me Different. According to the program, it explores the effect we, as individuals, have on each other when we make contact. It was actually uncomfortable to watch. But I liked it.

The whole thing made me wish, not for the first time, that I lived in a bigger city where I could get involved in projects like this. Though I found myself wondering why showcasing disability in dance so often has to be uncomfortable and harsh. Are they trying to make the audience see how intense we disabled folk are? Because sometimes I just eat ice cream bars and watch old episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Would it kill them to have one feel good piece, say, to the tune of "I Could Have Danced All Night." Just sayin'.

After the show, I went home and to bed. And that's as far as I got. I would have gone back to the vaulting conference on Sunday, but my body had other plans. Plans that involved bed, and tissues, and Robitussin.

My perfect vaulting horse

I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again, this getting sick from over-exertion is the toughest handicap I have. The weekend was filled with my kind of stuff, aside from the suspension, but it pushed me into the red zone. Somewhat ironically, disability-related activities did me in.

It kinda hurts because these are things I really care about. But I know I've asked too much of myself...again. And curled up under my covers on Sunday, I feel like I'll be lucky if I ever feel well enough to make toast.

Disconcerting thoughts bounce around my serene bedroom. Who do I think I am? Most normal people don't aspire to hanging around on silk ribbons. A lot of women my age are two or three kids in, knee-deep in  diapers. They don't have time to think about joining the circus.

I envy those women. Yet, somehow I'm not cut out for that mold. Sometimes I feel like I am constantly, almost obsessively, breaking it.

Then again, my bed is soft and the blinds are turned up so the light shoots toward the ceiling just the way I like it. I enjoy one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard: silence. I'm relieved to be home.

"This above all: to thine own self be true..." said Polonius to his son Laertes.

I guess it's all we can really be.

OneArmGirl  

setting the record straight

I've taken the week off, more or less. My aerial fabrics session ended last week and my vaulting class was cancelled this week. This, and the fact that this weekend is shaping up to be the Bermuda Triangle of activity, I took to be a sign that I need to lay low for a while.

And my body really needed a rest. Sometimes I forget how much I am actually asking of it on a weekly, or even daily, basis. The last four or five weeks, I've been struggling just to get by without ending up in a clump by Friday afternoon. To be fair, I've been under a heightened level of emotional stress lately and for whatever reason, one tends not to plan naps to forestall mental exhaustion. But I really should.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I readily admit that I enjoy most of what I do, and more than that, I find a greater sense of purpose in my current occupations, which is more than a lot of people can say. But still, good things can get the best of you.

And for me, they usually do. It's not hard to remember a time when being the best was more obligation than suggestion for me. Growing up with one arm, over-achievement was the norm. It seemed the only way to prove my value. The army's "Be All That You Can Be" motto might as well have been mine.

But these days, I love myself a little more, and I have less and less to prove. So, when a siesta comes knocking, I gladly open the door. Relaxation has proved a greater friend than achievement ever was. Rest accepts me just as I am.

But I've been irked out of my peaceful resting, and by the most unlikely of reasons. While perusing the blogs that I've forgotten that I follow, I came across a disability post on a young woman born with no legs and only one arm with three fingers. The headline read: "13 year-old Kayla Wheeler skis, swims, bowls and that's not all."

And that was all I read. It was all I had to read. I already knew the whole story. But it was still bothering me today, so I clicked on the video...

The friendly local news anchor introduced us to Kayla's story thusly: "If you're feeling lazy or tired tonight, perk up and pay attention; there are no more excuses."

Enter Miss Wheeler, a true poster child of disability, who, in addition to the above mentioned sports, plays the piano, coaches swimming, and played baseball and took ballet before hitting puberty. She is currently the U.S. record holder of her class in the 50 meter butterfly, and hopes to compete in this year's Paralympic Games in London. A mass of metals hangs on her bedroom wall.

So much for my restful week off.

Kayla is certainly a very talented and driven individual. Undoubtedly inspirational. There was a time when she might have been my hero, but I'm having a different reaction this week.

I'm frustrated. Kayla's story reminds me of a growing resentment I've been feeling toward disability publicity. If you only knew disability through media, you might come to believe that all people with handicaps are excessively active over-achievers, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro on all-fours like Kyle Maynard (if he had all fours, that is).

More than overcoming the odds, these handicapped celebs are leaving the odds in their dust. No wonder, as a child, I believed I needed to go above and beyond to be even noticed. Only the exceptional get press. Considering how many people with disabilities are over-achievers, clearly I'm in good company.

But my journey took an unexpected turn in early adulthood. I had to face my limits, accept them, and more than that, learn to love them. And a funny thing happened--I stopped needing to summit mountains.

Don't get me wrong, I think Kayla and Kyle, and even my Limbless Nemesis, are noteworthy individuals. But do you have to be outstanding to be worthy? And why do I still find myself sometimes believing I do?

Just last week I was stewing over all the things I want to be doing while I am still young--write, ride, teach, join the circus--and realizing that it would take more than one lifetime to appease my ambition. It quickly becomes the perfect storm for disappointment.

In praising those with handicaps for outsmarting disability, are we not actually reinforcing the old exaltation of physical or mental prowess.

These ponderings have actually caused me to question my own desire to attend the Paralympic Games this year as a spectator. Have I bought into the belief that the handicapped are only admirable when running fast on steel legs? What ever happened to walking?

I took a walk this evening with my friend Opie. We joked about planning our stroll like an old married couple. But it was lovely, making our way down sidewalks of pink-blossomed trees in the momentary light of dusk.

"This has been a great day," Opie remarked.

"Mmm," I agreed, though I'd actually spent most of the day fretting over what was not being accomplished.

"The most important thing we accomplished today was enjoying it," he concluded. And he was probably right.

Sometimes when I want to do everything, the best thing to do is nothing at all. Maybe I'll be the first handicapped person to go on achievement strike.

Do you think there's a record for that?

OneArmGirl

underwater wheelchairing

Now in my thirties, I decided it was time to visit a health professional to see what my body might need that it is not producing for itself. Yawn, I know. But I've decided aging gracefully is really my best option considering aging is not an option at all.

My mother can attest to the fact that I am no fan of vitamins, since she's been trying to get a handful of horse pills down me since I was a kid. But I'm an adult now, and therefore responsible for my own nutrition. Looking at my new list of supplements, I quickly realized this was already a lost cause if I couldn't get excited about it. I had to get motivated.

So, after a bit of internet searching, I found and bought this fun little pill container...

You can find this and some other fun pill-popping incentives here. And that's my shameless pill box plug.

I'm just not sure all my pills are actually going to fit into this wee box. I suppose I was hoping I'd just find that I have a huge vitamin D deficit and leave with a prescription for more sunshine. But it's more serious than that. I haven't even had my blood test, and I'm already taking three new pills. Turns out our human bodies have stopped producing vitamin C altogether. Some animals, like goats, still produce it. So now I am supposed to pop 6,000 milligrams of C every day.

I think this nutritional boost may require taking out a loan.

But I'm going to need all the support I can get my hands on to get through the mountain of reading material that I've waded into. I honestly don't know how it came to this. No, that's not true. I know it was a combination of bookstore visiting, walking by sale racks, and recommendations of friends. It's my environment, one could argue. But before I knew what was happening, I'm treading water in the bibliophilic deep end.

And that's why I really should not have purchased an anthology of poetry by writers with disabilities called Beauty is a Verb, which I happened upon on display at a local bookstore. But look at the cover––it's irresistible.

I've been so busy climbing on ribbons and nursing under-the-weather emotions this week, that I've only skimmed through, but this book is already lifting my mood.

If that woman can scuba dive at the bottom of a pool in a wheelchair, I think I can pick myself up off the floor and open a book. If I remember to take my vitamins, that is.

And at the same time, it's reminding me to be kind to myself; to celebrate who I am and not who I could be. I am not alone. We are not alone. In sorrow and in triumph, we are the human community, the living poetry of disability. None of us can produce vitamin C. I propose a glass of goat's milk toast...
 
After all, being normal is, indeed, so overrated.

OneArmGirl

ponytails and fairy endings

The OneArmGirl Facebook page got a facelift this week which, I think, added some panache. What's that? You didn't know we had a Facebook page? Check it out here.

In other news, the wind has arrived. If you are not from the southwest region just above Mexico, in a state with so little imagination as to be named after that country, you may not know to what I am referring. But to anyone from around these parts, the wind signals the arrival of spring.

And it has been much warmer, but I don't pretend to enjoy the gusts that signal the turning of the season, sending dirt swirling into the air and one hapless plastic bag into the tree outside my window. The bag has been in the tree for at least three days now.

It wouldn't be so bad if I were bald, but I happen to have a full head of already prone to be unruly hair. There's just something unnerving and generally unprofessional about the way wind picks it up, swirling it one direction and then the other, in a seemingly intentional anarchic revolution against any attempt at style. It flusters my brain.

This reminds me of my currently dire need for a ponytail. My contact at the Ponytail Project headquarters emailed this week to inform me that though progress has been slow, research and engineering go forth...the one-handed ponytail cannot be stopped. Apparently, none too soon if I'm supposed to make it through Spring.

But that is my goal, to make it through Spring. The year certainly did not start off as I'd expected. I never expected to spend New Year's Eve in a snowcat with a Mountain Guy. I certainly never expected to find myself dating him, doing laundry at his house, picking up his daughter at the bus stop, and staying up until 4am in his arms. Coming from such different backgrounds, we wanted so much in common. He played baseball and I like baseball guys. I loved his strong tattooed forearms. He loved my butt.

But seriously, we both valued sincerity and simplicity and service...and apparently the letter 'S'. My hand fit into his, fingers laced, almost like they'd been made to do so. I imagined drinking coffee with him in our country house before heading out to work, each using our respective skills to serve the community.

Then, last Sunday, we broke it off.

And why am I announcing this in the middle of a post, after such superfluities as Facebook and ponytails? I suppose because I couldn't think of a good way to announce it, and when I don't know what to say, I generally say something silly. Breakups can be a number of things, but they are rarely silly. 

Silliness aside, I've spent the last few days cleaning and crying, in no particular order. It's not a bad break, but I would argue sometimes it's the nicest splits that hurt the worst; kinda leaves you wondering how things could have been different. But there isn't really an answer. There was conflict, sure. His Italian passion ruffled my German stoicism, the sociologist could argue. But history tells us that didn't keep them from getting into bed together.

Perhaps a recent trip to the zoo should have tipped me off. After befriending a particularly sociable bird named Velcro (for obvious reasons), we thought it would be fun to get a picture of him nibbling on Finneas. So, while one girl frantically tried to get the shot, and I hoped Velcro didn't get too hungry, another bird somehow managed to poop on MG's T-shirt.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Hurry, just take the picture!"

MG: "But I just got pooped on!"

When we first met, MG said he "knew we'd be doing time together." I laughed when he told me this, asking if he meant "like Bonnie and Clyde?"

He was right, I reflected this week. But it's almost like we wanted it too much. Perhaps we just missed the mark on the sort of time we'd be doing. I think we'd make solid friends, and as allies, I doubt anyone could stand against us. I can't help but muse that if we'd stayed together, we may have ended up criminals on the lamb. Then again, this is post breakup by three days, so it could be the beer talking.

It's rough. What can I tell you that you don't already know. We love, we laugh, we cry...and then we do the dishes, because unlike love, washing is fairly straightforward.

And washing the dishes actually feels really good just now. And cleaning the toilet. And making my bed. These are the things of life that go on. I feel at peace––maybe because I know the dishes have to be clean before they can serve another meal. How nice and secure in purpose to be a dish.

So, check out the Facebook page and like it. Put your hair in a ponytail if you feel so inclined. Try to love the people in your life the best you can, and I'll see you here next week...

OneArmGirl