Date Night

When my son was young, we'd frequently leave Dad and little sister at home and go have a "Mommy-J***" date night. While he's no longer a child, and rapidly becoming a man, it's still nice to enjoy each other's company, and last weekend we had an evening reminiscent of those cherished evenings of his youth.

I've had dating on my mind. Now, I know some readers wouldn't expect a middle-aged, divorced woman, and especially a WHEELCHAIR-using woman, to be thinking about dating. But here it is for all the world to see: Disabled people have the same biological, emotional, relational longings as the rest of the world. Even sexual needs... gasp. (But that's not what I'm talking about here. As a Christian, I believe sex is something sacred to be experienced within the bounds of a marriage commitment, not casually in dating. Just saying...)

Now that I've grabbed your attention... back to this past weekend. While Jeff and I were having dinner at a fun Japanese restaurant, I started imagining what it would be like to be on a real date. What would it be like to be romanced? What would my date find it to be like to be with me? Those sorts of things. Within that framework of wondering, I "watched" the evening unfold through the eyes of my "mystery date".

OK, dinner. So far so good. Fun. Light-hearted. (Although, I did look like Gene Simmons from KISS when I tried to catch the rice ball with my tongue snaking a foot out of my mouth. Every other person in the restaurant tilted their heads back as the chef gently lobbed rice balls that dropped effortlessly into their mouths. But, me? No way! I had to make it look somewhat perverse... or so said my son who took great enjoyment in my embarrassment.) Dinner with a date. Yep, definitely do-able. With one caveat: No unlimited refills on beverages! We'll get back to that.

We were rushed to get to the movie theatre -- the one that offers free seating for people with disabilities and one companion. (Hear that men? You can take me to the movies and it will only cost the price of popcorn. A definite perk?)

I rolled to the ticket window, requested two tickets to the movie, and $19.50 appeared on the screen. Ummm, hello? I'm a good two feet below the average person, isn't it obvious I'm in a wheelchair?

"Ma'am, that will be $19.50."

Thinking he was somehow overlooking the obvious or forgetting policy, I replied, "What about free tickets for people with disabilities?"

"I'm sorry, that is no longer provided. The industry folks in Hollywood were unhappy with that policy."

(It's amazing how much can process through one's brain in an instant. "The one perk, the one perk, and such a little one at that, the one public recognition that being disabled might be difficult, the one little concession that feels like somebody is paying attention and showing some honor, and they have taken it away because the filmmakers in Hollywood are concerned about the money they aren't raking in from the hoards of wheelchair-using movie goers! Damn, we don't even take a real seat in the theatre!")

Quite without thinking, and in a heartbeat, I replied somewhat sardonically, "Yeh, damn gimps."

My son blushed and stammered, "Ignore her."

(Picturing the mystery date in the same shoes,I thought, "Uh oh. Probably not good date form!")

That waitress at Wasabi's was an evil genius. She knew we were headed to a movie, and I think she knew just how... ermm... *urgent* my bladder needs can be. Why else would she keep bringing diet coke after diet coke after diet coke?

Before heading into the movie, already ten minutes late, I HAD to stop by the restroom. (Here's where blogging gets fun. Do I tell or don't I tell? Do you want to read this or not? If not, just scroll down a couple of paragraphs.) I scooted over from my wheelchair onto the toilet and began tugging down my pants. I thought they were down far enough, but NO THEY WERE NOT! I peed all over the waistband of my jeans.

What would you do in this circumstance? I don't know about you, but I'd gone to alot of trouble driving to the next city and was really looking forward to the movie, so I dried my pants with toilet tissue, as best I was able, thinking, "This would most definitely not be good date form! If I ever hope to be asked on a second date, I'll have to come up with better options!")

The movie was great and with the revised policy requiring PWDs to pay for their tickets, the theatre was blessedly empty of those throngs of wheelchair-goers and we were able to use one of the cut-out areas. (I'm kidding. In years and years, I've seen only one other wheelchair-goer and there was ample room for more.)

It gets better (or worse!), folks. After the movie, I stood from my wheelchair, stepped onto the running board of my SUV, and my foot, as it is wont to do, slipped. I'm splayed back on the seat, holding onto the grab bar for dear life with my feet on the pavement. JEFFFFFF! (Maybe together we can help me scoot my butt backwards onto the seat and prevent a complete drop to the pavement.) Nope. No stinkin' way. I slid out of the car and onto the ground. (For all you men out there reading this and wishing you were in Jeffrey's shoes, I understand. Isn't it a shame blogs are anonymous and I can't post my phone number?)

We tried, and I do mean tried, to get me back to my feet or into my wheelchair or...

Twenty minutes later, and almost ready to call for professional help, I sent up an SOS to God, "Would you be an angel and help me out here?"

I looked up, and kid you not, there was a Hell's Angel sporting a shaggy gray beard, Harley vest and a belly that spoke of beer... lots and lots of beer. I had a quiet confidence that this very kind, burly man could help. Indeed. Two minutes later, he and my son had me safely seated in my wheelchair, and within another minute, I was in the car ready to head for home.

Now, had this been a real date, can you imagine the conversation during the thirty minute drive home!! Or would there be silence as my date would be thinking longingly of the tender goodnight kiss he hoped to plant on my soft lips at the front door as he gazed romantically into my eyes telling me what a good time he had?

When I begin dating, it is going to be an adventure. Probably fodder for a best-selling book. But, in the meantime, I'm going to continue taking care of my body and trying to get in better shape. Less weight and stronger muscles would definitely be a plus. I like to imagine those well-muscled men deftly lifting my graceful, slim self from the ground while I have my slim, toned arms wrapped around their good-smelling necks. Now, THAT could be good date form!