hard

At various times in my life, people have expressed admiration for my positive attitude despite handicapping circumstances. Mostly I shrug this off. It's no big thang, I think.

Clowning around

While employed at a bookstore in my early twenties, one such admirer came up to tell me he thought it was great that I was working. This seemed ridiculous to me as I'd never thought I had an alternative. Was I supposed to be at home, hiding in a closet?

My aerial class started again this week. There were a lot of new students, a happy thing for the oft unknown subculture of circus arts. But I proceeded to watch a young woman with obvious ability get most of my instructors' attention. I felt side-lined. They were teaching her moves that I knew I could do, but no one bothered to show me.

After watching her perform the 'mermaid,' I asked to try. My teacher immediately called for a spotter and went for the mattress in case I fell. Wrapping my legs around the hooped lira, I arced backward, hands free. I did not fall.

In the car after class, I cried. I was so tired. More than missed practice, I was tired from years of stepping into the ring, believing in myself without any real sense of certainty--taking a risk that only I could take. I've become so accustomed to proving myself that I seldom stop to admit how hard it really is, all this believing. It is exhausting.

I've had many cheerleaders over the years, of course, and I wouldn't want to slight them, but it is a singularly lonely experience to be the one on whom hope rests. I carry this hope, mine and others', like the most precious of jewels. It is not a responsibility I take lightly.

Truth: in recent weeks, I've come the closest that I've come in three years to quitting this blog. How many weeks have I sat down to the keyboard without an inkling of inspiration?

"Writing is not a profession, but a vocation of unhappiness," said Henry Miller. I think I'll use that the next time someone asks me if I support myself with words.

In an impassioned email that can only come from a hurting heart, Mountain Guy recently told me that I lead the most privileged life of any one he knows. He challenged me to stop writing about my life and start writing from my soul.

I was immediately offended, of course, but I had to ask myself, am I missing the point? Am I living in such denial of my own hurt that I make a mockery of others'. And I got thinking about why I do what I do––why I write the experience of disability with witty nonchalance, making the handicapped life sound like fodder for sketch comedy.

I've often felt that OneArmGirl is more a caricature of myself than a journalistic representation. But I make no apologies. I am not dishonest in my light-hearted romps, but this may be mistaken for ease of existence. Life is a shipwreck. Humor is merely my life vest.

No one puts it better than the tragic humorist Oscar Wilde: "Life is too important to be taken seriously." If you're road-weary and life-worn, so am I. Now, let's see if I can make you laugh...

OneArmGirl

these boots

I've been wanting a pair of western boots for some time. So this past weekend when Little Gen and I were in the artsy town where we grew up, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to look around.

Boots there were a plenty, but after you've looked over the first two hundred pair, it's hard to tell what's working--do you want shiny or scuffed, dark brown or blue, snakeskin or rhinestone--I'm a one-arm rhinestone cowgirl?

No, definitely not rhinestone; I might be an urban cowgirl, but I draw the line at rhinestones.

And then there's the fit--the heel can't be too tight, the instep too lose. You have to walk around in them. Then you have to imagine walking into the future with them; ask yourself, can I go the distance with this boot?

I tried on some pre-owned boots; boots that were in a previous relationship with other feet, but for whatever reason, they were put back on the sales rack. I tried on a pair of white Tony Lama's that fit like an Isotoner glove. They put exactly the right amount of pressure on every part of my foot--like a perfect hug. Apparently I have a foot twin out there somewhere. I just couldn't commit to the white with black heels--a little too flashy for me.

Suffice to say, there are a lot of pretty boots out there. But when you've got endless options and only three hours of shopping to make a decision, every boot starts to look nice, but not nice enough.

We decided to take a break at Haagen-Dazs. When in doubt, get ice cream; or a cream-filled chocolate doughnut. Whatever.

I'd given up the search, resigned myself to remaining bootless, when we found them--Aged brown leather with bright yellow embroidered flowers. I walked right by them, but Little Gen liked them right away. She tried them on first, but it just wasn't the right fit.

I tried them on, but still wasn't convinced. So, I walked around, took them on and off, then caught my reflection in the mirror. They were bolder than I was looking for, but I realized they were me--colorful, bold, but simple in their own way. I bought them.

In years of shopping, I've learned you can't force things. You may not find what you're looking for, or you may forget what you came for in the first place. I've definitely purchased items that fit all my criteria, only to find as soon as I get home, I've already lost interest.

More often than not, the really good buys are a surprise-- things that when you see them, you say 'No way,' but you find yourself smiling. And after the initial shock, you realize you can't go on without it--a pair of boots, that is.

OneArmGirl

dragons, unicorns, and things less magical

At the beginning of the week I asked Dragon Boy's Mama if I could take him to the zoo.

"Sure," she said, "just make sure they give him a nice habitat."

She jokes. I think...

------------

Before the planned visit to the not-so-wild kingdom, I said we had to walk Keeper because they don't allow dogs at the zoo.

"I've seen dogs at the zoo before," Dragon Boy informed me. I forgot to mention that he is currently the world's leading expert on everything.

"Actually," he continued, "I didn't see a dog at the zoo; sometimes I just make things up." Indeed.

I actually live just around the corner from the zoo. It is quite something to hear a seal bark or a lion roar just as one is unlocking the front door. Sometimes when I'm walking the river trail, I like to peek in on the elephants from the backside of the zoo. I saw them kissing once.

I really wanted to see the new baby rhino, but Dragon Boy was intent on visiting the reptiles first...then the parrots...then the birds of prey....then the sea lions before we even got over to Africa. After the zebras and giraffes, we finally came to the white rhino exhibit. But there was no baby to be found. Apparently he is waiting for his coming out party this weekend.

Up to now, I was having a fairly good day. And then I had to pee. It should here be noted that I was keeping my mobile phone in my back pocket for convenient use of the camera. I don't make a habit of this, but that is really beside the point. I think you can probably guess what happened next in the toilet stall. Unfortunately some of you can relate.

The official story we're going with is that I dropped it in the kitchen sink. As of last night, it was on life support. It went in for surgery this morning, but it's not looking good. I think I'm gonna have to pull the plug.

So that is the long explanation for the lack of relevant art in this post. It also may explain why my brain was elsewhere when, later that evening, I went to pick up a pizza and discovered I had no wallet. No problem, I'll just call Dragon Boy's Mama and have her pay with a credit card, I thought. But my phone, which I had remembered to bring, was intermittently flashing on and off. I must have looked pretty pathetic by this time, because the pizza guy just pushed the pie across the counter to me in exchange for my promise to pay on the 'morrow. I accepted his offer, graciously. Well, as graciously as I could--there was precious little grace about me by that point.

Despite the doubtful recovery of my phone, I'm ready to get back on the upside. It's not looking good, though--this morning I spilled coffee on my dog.

OneArmGirl

one-arm prime time

On this season of The Bachelor, one of the women vying for his love is missing her left arm below the elbow. And no, that's not the teaser for the show, though I kind of wish it were.

Bring it, Herron.

How do I know this? Glad you asked. It seems that while Mountain Guy was in North Dakota, there were only two things to do for entertainment: freeze your tail off or watch thirty plus women cat-fighting in a mansion.

So, I sat down with some kettle corn to watch the first episode. Hey, it was research. Her name is Sarah Herron, and she was born without her left forearm. She was also born supermodel gorgeous, poor thing.

As it turns out, even supermodel looks aren't enough to keep insecurities at bay. I once saw an interview with Uma Thurman in which she admitted to having severely low self esteem. Apparently, she could kill bill, but not the ugly monster inside that said she wasn't good enough.

But I was expecting more from Sarah Herron. She was beautiful and successful; surely she, of all people, knew that one missing forearm was nothing to fear. By the middle of the episode, she still hadn't been taken aside for a private tête-à-tête with the man of the hour, and she started to get worried.

In an interview, she told the camera she didn't know why she hadn't found a man yet. Ok, I hear ya sister. Then she said the only reason she could think of was that her arm was keeping the guys away. My chin hit the floor. Are you kidding me? I dropped the kettle corn and started pacing my living room. How could she say something like that. Please tell me the producers were holding a gun to her head, I begged.

I hear Sarah is still in the top ten on the show. I can't bear to watch anymore. I'm not mad, even if she did affirm the stereotype that we handicapped folk are to be pitied. After I calmed down, I felt a little sad for her. I also feel thankful that I no longer believe my arm is something guys have to 'look past,' handsome and rich and kind as they may be.

I'm not gonna say I never feel self conscious or low on the self assurance scale. And perhaps it's pride, but if a guy writes me off because of my arm, I immediately assume he isn't worth my time, I don't care how many arms he has. And PS, it hasn't happened yet.

OneArmGirl

Today's post has been delayed due to an invasion of spider monkeys. We're still cleaning up the poop.

single-hand mom

Some years ago a single woman in Britain with no arms and only one half-formed leg got pregnant. This was rather controversial, as you might imagine. But she made no apologies. Instead, she posed for an artist to make a huge nude sculpture of her, which was later put on display at Trafalger Square in London.


This week, I got to try my hand at mothering. I've been staying with Mountain Guy's three girls while he finishes up a job in North Dakota. I know what you're thinking: must be nice to have an ex girlfriend who watches your children for you. Yes, I'm a saint--or a sucker.

The first morning I walked the girls down to the bus stop, Keeper the dog decided to go to school and jumped right on after them. I had to run onto the bus to retrieve her. Thankfully the driver was amused.

But most everything else is running smoothly. I even survived a trip to the mall on the weekend, something I'm convinced only a teenage girl could enjoy.

So when Tuesday rolled around, I was ready. It was going to be the mother of all mothering days. First, the girls got off to school. Then I headed over to Dragon Boy's house and made him some eggs. While the eggs were on the stove, I threw some laundry into the machine. Then Dragon Boy and I put his beagle in her crate and ran (figuratively) to Target for some needed supplies; and some necessary Starbucks.

As soon as we got home, we let the beagle out, threw the laundry in to dry, put the beagle back in, and we were off again--to see a theater production of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie and some other stories, along with what seemed like twelve million other children. I earned extra points navigating through the parking garage and auto pay station, reaching our seats just before the curtain went up.

After the show it was a race to get back home and let Keeper out to pee; but not without stopping first for gas. Did I mention it was like 20 degrees outside with wind? I was reminded of this while doing battle with my credit card and the pump pay station.

Photo courtesy Mañana Mama

When we arrived home, the very excited dog was let out and then I made chicken salads for lunch. I had just cleaned up lunch and begun to read the next chapter of The Indian in the Cupboard to Dragon Boy, when the girls started to arrive home.

As they began homework, I started on chicken stir fry; making it, not eating it. Dinner was nearly done when it was time for Dragon Boy, eldest girl, and I to head back into town. After eldest girl was delivered to her appointment, it was time to take Dragon Boy home and pick up my laundry. Then it was back over to pick up eldest girl and deliver her to a youth group meeting, with a brief stop at a Wendy's drive through on the way.

By this time, I was starting to envision myself in a comfy armchair, feet up, with a beer in my hand. But no! The finish line was in sight. If I went home, I might never leave, so I did what I always like to do when I am already dead tired...I went shopping. Sometime in the next two hours of delirium, I bought a Led Zeppelin CD. When's the last time you can say you've listened to If You Give A Mouse A Cookie and Led Zeppelin in the same day?

Needless to say, when we reached home, it was straight to bed. It may not have been an all-time score-breaker, but I definitely finished at my personal best. I fell asleep with half a beer on the bedside table, to dream of clean underwear.

I used to admire that courageous British lady; now I think she's out of her bloomin' mind. But seriously, to all you moms out there, one arm, two arms, or none, I salute you. And I would never judge you for using a microwave.

OneArmGirl

hand pamper

Manicures: I hardly ever bother.

I'm one of those people, actually the only person I know not working as a mechanic or in the oil fields, who perpetually has dirt under her fingernails. I really don't understand it. I will clean them out, and then without fail, look down five minutes later to find them magically refilled.

It was more understandable when I was working in a barn with horses and, well, dirt. But not only are my nails constantly in a state of uncleanness, I hardly ever have nails to begin with. With all the tearing and breakage, if they grow past the end of my fingers, it's a miracle. And generally a very short-live miracle at that.

But recently a coupon for a gel manicure came across my desk. If you are unaware, as I was until like the day before yesterday, gel polish is to regular polish as Fettucini Alfredo is to Kraft Mac 'N Cheese. It actually stays on your nails for a significant amount of time before it starts chipping. I know this because last fall I got a gel pedicure that lasted, and looked good, for at least a month. This is good news for those of us who are likely to chip polish off our nails getting into the car when leaving salon.

It never hurts to pamper your hands. I know this as well as anybody, and yet I probably take less care of my hands than most. Finneas doesn't suffer much from the neglect because he is generally protected from the elements and any major physical labor beneath a sleeve. But the bigger arm suffers the majority of the work load with little complaint. And that's why I often fail to give it some well-deserved attention.

So I decided it was worth a shot. Perhaps a gel manicure would actually stay on my rebellious nails, even helping them to grow stronger. I called my BFF on the way to the salon to tell her I was running late, but it later occurred to me that it might be a good thing since she had twice the nails to cover. This is the same BFF that enjoys asking manicurists if her friend with one arm gets a 50% discount.

My manicurist didn't seem too put out that I was late, and if she noticed that her client had only one hand, she didn't let on. As she was finishing up the first phase with my right hand, I got the feeling she was going to just ignore Finneas. So I explained to her that he would feel mighty left out, and I would never hear the end of it, if he didn't get the same special treatment. She smiled. And we were friends.

I'm one week in, and still no chip to be found. The only thing I regret is having gone with Barbie-goes-to-the-prom pink, with glitter, of course. But it feels nice to have nails.

I may not deserve half off, but I still think 20% sounds fair.

OneArmGirl