Before leaving on vacation, I dutifully packed 35 Medifast "meals", fully intending to continue the plan by eating 5 Medifast products and the 1 Lean/Green meal each day. As soon as we got to California, though, I quickly realized that I could not easily follow that plan AND be receptive to the hospitality that was being offered and avail myself of the wonderful opportunities to try new cuisine and broaden my horizons.
Had I stayed on plan, I would have missed the opportunity to eat the best Chinese food I've ever tasted at the Yum Yum Restaurant in Calexico, Victor's juevos rancheros, the best orange juice EVER!, barbacoa (similar to pulled pork with hot chili spice), refried beans, tripe soup (yes, I even enjoyed the opportunity to eat soup made with the lining of a cow's belly!), and authentic tamales.
It was wonderful to eat freely without guilt or hesitation. I find that my relationship with food continues to change. Even while trying new food, I found myself choosing NOT to eat chocolate cake, fast food, hotdogs at the zoo, etc. I felt completely free of any compulsion to eat, and completely free to eat that which seemed a good thing.
Now, that I'm home, I'm 100% back on track. (If you read my last post, having my pants fall off my hips was a MAJOR rush... one which I am excited to continue... umm... that is to say, I'm excited to continue losing weight so that my pants continue becoming looser. Don't worry, East Tennesse, I'm retiring those gray jeans. It's the experience of getting smaller and healthier that I crave, not the opportunities to flash poor hapless men. Although...)
Not only was it a rush to lose my pants (three times! but who's counting!) but also to be able to do things with more ease and confidence. Several times during travel, especially in Mexico outside of the reach of the Americans with Disability Act accomodations, I was SO grateful for the strengthening exercises I had been doing. None of the bathrooms in Mexico had grab bars and that would have been HIGHLY problematic just a few short months ago. Instead, I managed.
Because of losing weight and exercising, I felt stronger, more adventurous, healthier, more vivacious, and more attractive. Flirtatious, even.
When I turned 40 back in 2001, God "told" me to hold my arms up to the sky and prepare to be amazed at what was going to happen during this decade of my life. It has been and continues to be an amazing journey of healing in every possible way that a person can be healed, especially emotionally, spiritually, and now physically. Once I stopped defining for God what healing entailed (strong "normal" legs), I have been enfolded in healing grace and would honestly choose God's way of healing (healthy in a wheelchair), as weird as that might sound, to having a standard-issue body. God, you dazzle me.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
David Hasselhoff, Eat your Heart Out
Hoo Boy! Do I ever have a humdinger of a story...
Before going any furter, I urge you to go watch this youtube video. It will definitely add to your enjoyment of this post.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X9AUZoG0I0
Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground. Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground... catchy, ehh?
On the last day of our Mexican/Californian adventure, Kelly and I decided to spend some time on one of San Diego's gorgeous beaches. Having learned through a serendipitous email just days before we left for vacation that CA beaches have special beach wheelchairs available for use by disabled persons, I was over the moon at the thought of "walking" the beach and searching for shells. (The beach had become something I could not do about six years ago after gradually becoming more and more difficult.)
We traveled to the southern-most beach, just a couple of miles from the border with Mexico, on a drive that was phenomenally beautiful. At the lifeguard station, the poor lifeguard seemed a little bit puzzled about where the chair was stored, how to assign it to me, etc. (He was sixty years-old and was obviously tired of his job saying it was nothing like Baywatch... monotonous, low-pay, no retirement... stuff like that. He was about as effervescent as flat diet coke.)
This is where the story gets good and I hope you've read this far because you are about to be rewarded. When I stood up to transfer from my standard wheelchair to this weirdly specialized motorized chair with huge rubber tires, I felt my pants slide down over my hips, smooth as silk, and then begin gaining momentum as they slid down my thighs to my knees. My quick reflexes stopped them from puddling in a heap at my ankles. Yes, old, lifeguard excitement man was standing inches away. Just when he thought his job could offer nothing new! And I started babbling like diet coke exploding from a shaken bottle, "Kelly! Look! My diet is working!" I didn't care the Mr. Old, but still slightly hot, lifeguard man had seen me standing with my hole-free (thank God for that grace!)white panties shining for all the world to see.
I'm almost certain he audibly exhaled a sigh of relief as I toggled the joy stick forward and descended the sand bank towards the ocean's edge. His relief was short-lived. Two minutes later, I looked up to see him barrelling across the sand in his big, shiny red truck at a hurried clip. Leaning out the window, he hollerered with a BIT more animation than he had exhibited before, "Oh, you can take it on the moist sand, but you can't get it wet!" ( You see, I had made a beeline for the waves. In my excitement about feeling waves lapping at my feet and reveling in the sensation of sand receeding beneath my toes, a larger wave had landed and water had swirled mid-tire. I was trying to remember what I knew about flash floods and driving through swollen creeks and wondered if I was about to be swept out to sea on my newfound toy.)
Do you agree with me that this would have been an excellent plotline for Baywatch?
After about an hour of "beach-combing" we headed back to the lifeguard station only to find the battery was almost exhausted and the chair kept lurching to a stop. Enter the same red pick-up truck with a different oldish lifeguard coming to the rescue. (He seemed perturbed that LG#1 had not gone over the safety checklist nor had me sign the liability release. (Bet they were sweating bullets when they observed me from the glass enclosed guard tower as I was about to be swept towards Hawaii on their chair! Can't you just see the newspaper headlines!!!)
We managed to push me up the dune and parked outside the station.
I stood up to transfer to my own wheelchair, and,... yes, I think you know where this is going... I'll be danged if my pants didn't begin their descent towards my ankles once again. "Woops!", exclaimed LG#2. "Kelly, look! It wasn't a fluke. These pants really are too big!"
I'm glad I was able to relieve their boredom. It was fun appearing in this parody of Baywatch. (And my freakin' pants FELL off! Twice!!! Well, really, three times... again at the airport later that evening for the Indian cab driver. San Diego, I'll definitely come back. This was too much fun!)
Before going any furter, I urge you to go watch this youtube video. It will definitely add to your enjoyment of this post.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X9AUZoG0I0
Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground. Looking like a fool with your pants on the ground... catchy, ehh?
On the last day of our Mexican/Californian adventure, Kelly and I decided to spend some time on one of San Diego's gorgeous beaches. Having learned through a serendipitous email just days before we left for vacation that CA beaches have special beach wheelchairs available for use by disabled persons, I was over the moon at the thought of "walking" the beach and searching for shells. (The beach had become something I could not do about six years ago after gradually becoming more and more difficult.)
We traveled to the southern-most beach, just a couple of miles from the border with Mexico, on a drive that was phenomenally beautiful. At the lifeguard station, the poor lifeguard seemed a little bit puzzled about where the chair was stored, how to assign it to me, etc. (He was sixty years-old and was obviously tired of his job saying it was nothing like Baywatch... monotonous, low-pay, no retirement... stuff like that. He was about as effervescent as flat diet coke.)
This is where the story gets good and I hope you've read this far because you are about to be rewarded. When I stood up to transfer from my standard wheelchair to this weirdly specialized motorized chair with huge rubber tires, I felt my pants slide down over my hips, smooth as silk, and then begin gaining momentum as they slid down my thighs to my knees. My quick reflexes stopped them from puddling in a heap at my ankles. Yes, old, lifeguard excitement man was standing inches away. Just when he thought his job could offer nothing new! And I started babbling like diet coke exploding from a shaken bottle, "Kelly! Look! My diet is working!" I didn't care the Mr. Old, but still slightly hot, lifeguard man had seen me standing with my hole-free (thank God for that grace!)white panties shining for all the world to see.
I'm almost certain he audibly exhaled a sigh of relief as I toggled the joy stick forward and descended the sand bank towards the ocean's edge. His relief was short-lived. Two minutes later, I looked up to see him barrelling across the sand in his big, shiny red truck at a hurried clip. Leaning out the window, he hollerered with a BIT more animation than he had exhibited before, "Oh, you can take it on the moist sand, but you can't get it wet!" ( You see, I had made a beeline for the waves. In my excitement about feeling waves lapping at my feet and reveling in the sensation of sand receeding beneath my toes, a larger wave had landed and water had swirled mid-tire. I was trying to remember what I knew about flash floods and driving through swollen creeks and wondered if I was about to be swept out to sea on my newfound toy.)
Do you agree with me that this would have been an excellent plotline for Baywatch?
After about an hour of "beach-combing" we headed back to the lifeguard station only to find the battery was almost exhausted and the chair kept lurching to a stop. Enter the same red pick-up truck with a different oldish lifeguard coming to the rescue. (He seemed perturbed that LG#1 had not gone over the safety checklist nor had me sign the liability release. (Bet they were sweating bullets when they observed me from the glass enclosed guard tower as I was about to be swept towards Hawaii on their chair! Can't you just see the newspaper headlines!!!)
We managed to push me up the dune and parked outside the station.
I stood up to transfer to my own wheelchair, and,... yes, I think you know where this is going... I'll be danged if my pants didn't begin their descent towards my ankles once again. "Woops!", exclaimed LG#2. "Kelly, look! It wasn't a fluke. These pants really are too big!"
I'm glad I was able to relieve their boredom. It was fun appearing in this parody of Baywatch. (And my freakin' pants FELL off! Twice!!! Well, really, three times... again at the airport later that evening for the Indian cab driver. San Diego, I'll definitely come back. This was too much fun!)
Friday, October 15, 2010
Miraculous Healings Still Happen
My friend whom I hadn't seen in a few months stopped by the other day and ended up leaving my house in tears. (I have that effect on people, you know!)
At the end of our visit, just as she was standing to leave, somehow the conversation came around to my legs. She saw my legs and her eyes instantly became awash with tears.
Let me set the context for this: M is the friend who helped a year and a half ago to take the derailed train wreck of my life and get it back on track. With her amazing skills as a nurse, she did triage to assess first steps and helped break it all down into manageable little baby steps. The first step was to get treatment at the Wound Center for the deep, decubetous wounds on my lower legs. She drove me to EVERY appointment (once or twice a week) for months, she sat in and asked questions, she made sure I had the knowledge and the resources to follow aftercare instructions, she took me to lunch. In short, she was the hands and feet and heart of Jesus for me, and her love was a catalyst of empowerment within me for my ability to be stronger and healthier. She allowed me to be in control of the process but was always gently making suggestions, asking questions, providing assistance in a non-judgmental manner. It was a partnership. A lovely, life giving partnership of saving a life.
Back to the present and the tears: Not only are the wounds a very distant memory, but the skin on my lower legs is dramatically better. I'll spare you the details of the former skin quality, but now it is beginning to look like normalish skin. The swelling that resulted in the former skin breakdown is well under control and markedly less.
Last year, my lower legs were so swollen that I literally could not find any shoes that I could wear. They looked like small tree trunks. Today, they look normal. Last year, I struggled with wrapping them every night with ace bandages. It literally took an hour to wrap both legs and it was with great difficulty. Today, perhaps as a result of losing weight combined with stronger legs and greater flexibility, I am able to wrap both legs in about 10-15 minutes and it's a breeze. Today, I have a cute pair of ankle boots I love to wear with tights and a mid-thigh length skirt.
M took one look at my legs and with emotion said, "Lynna, this is a miracle."
I think she's correct. Healing miracles still happen, although not always the way we expect. I know in my case, I prayed, "God, please heal my legs." and hoped to look down to see instantaneous changes. Instead, God answered that prayer, I think, by sending me people who could help me heal my life (emotionally, spiritually, relationally, as well as physically), and gave me the desire to begin doing MY part to take care of me and to affect the healing process by eating well, laughing more, and moving my body (some people call it exercise).
I hope to never forget and never to stop being grateful for the healing grace that is poured out on my life through the inner working of the Holy Spirit and the external workings of Christ through people who serve. (I have about a hundred posts rattling around in my head that need to be written to express gratitude to individuals who have made a difference. Hopefully, you know who you are!)
At the end of our visit, just as she was standing to leave, somehow the conversation came around to my legs. She saw my legs and her eyes instantly became awash with tears.
Let me set the context for this: M is the friend who helped a year and a half ago to take the derailed train wreck of my life and get it back on track. With her amazing skills as a nurse, she did triage to assess first steps and helped break it all down into manageable little baby steps. The first step was to get treatment at the Wound Center for the deep, decubetous wounds on my lower legs. She drove me to EVERY appointment (once or twice a week) for months, she sat in and asked questions, she made sure I had the knowledge and the resources to follow aftercare instructions, she took me to lunch. In short, she was the hands and feet and heart of Jesus for me, and her love was a catalyst of empowerment within me for my ability to be stronger and healthier. She allowed me to be in control of the process but was always gently making suggestions, asking questions, providing assistance in a non-judgmental manner. It was a partnership. A lovely, life giving partnership of saving a life.
Back to the present and the tears: Not only are the wounds a very distant memory, but the skin on my lower legs is dramatically better. I'll spare you the details of the former skin quality, but now it is beginning to look like normalish skin. The swelling that resulted in the former skin breakdown is well under control and markedly less.
Last year, my lower legs were so swollen that I literally could not find any shoes that I could wear. They looked like small tree trunks. Today, they look normal. Last year, I struggled with wrapping them every night with ace bandages. It literally took an hour to wrap both legs and it was with great difficulty. Today, perhaps as a result of losing weight combined with stronger legs and greater flexibility, I am able to wrap both legs in about 10-15 minutes and it's a breeze. Today, I have a cute pair of ankle boots I love to wear with tights and a mid-thigh length skirt.
M took one look at my legs and with emotion said, "Lynna, this is a miracle."
I think she's correct. Healing miracles still happen, although not always the way we expect. I know in my case, I prayed, "God, please heal my legs." and hoped to look down to see instantaneous changes. Instead, God answered that prayer, I think, by sending me people who could help me heal my life (emotionally, spiritually, relationally, as well as physically), and gave me the desire to begin doing MY part to take care of me and to affect the healing process by eating well, laughing more, and moving my body (some people call it exercise).
I hope to never forget and never to stop being grateful for the healing grace that is poured out on my life through the inner working of the Holy Spirit and the external workings of Christ through people who serve. (I have about a hundred posts rattling around in my head that need to be written to express gratitude to individuals who have made a difference. Hopefully, you know who you are!)
Monday, October 11, 2010
Cheekbones Romance the Narcissist
Gazing in the mirror hasn't been my thing since I was a teenager. Yet, the other day, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror, and had to stop and marvel. I sat there mesmerized by the reflection, turning my head this way and that, wondering where the extra chin(s) had gone, observing tendons in my neck, enjoying the reappearance of cheek bones after a long hiatus. I thought I looked pretty and it felt so very, very good to enjoy looking at myself.
Until I glanced away and noticed that the truck traveling in front of me had stopped to turn left! Instantly, I knew I wouldn't have time to stop. With oncoming cars in the left lane, and a steep drop-off and drainage ditch to the right, there was nothing to do but slam on the brakes and plow into the poor, hapless Ford truck. Significant body damage resulted to both vehicles. Significant!
Cheekbones, I love ya! Truly, I do. But did you have to choose that mirror to turn on your flirtatious charm?
PS Adding an addendum to say that I am perfectly fine, as was the other driver. Could have been bad, though, and I am grateful it was only twisted steel and smashed glass. Damn mirror.
Until I glanced away and noticed that the truck traveling in front of me had stopped to turn left! Instantly, I knew I wouldn't have time to stop. With oncoming cars in the left lane, and a steep drop-off and drainage ditch to the right, there was nothing to do but slam on the brakes and plow into the poor, hapless Ford truck. Significant body damage resulted to both vehicles. Significant!
Cheekbones, I love ya! Truly, I do. But did you have to choose that mirror to turn on your flirtatious charm?
PS Adding an addendum to say that I am perfectly fine, as was the other driver. Could have been bad, though, and I am grateful it was only twisted steel and smashed glass. Damn mirror.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Fashion Conundrums
I am growing addicted to shopping at thrift stores! I love finding bargains and being creative in putting together outfits on a dime. Ever since I learned how to load my wheelchair by myself, with the resultant freedom to go places by myself, and since I've lost weight and look so much better, I find myself ENJOYING shopping. (For the past ten years, it has been torturous... like having one's toenails ripped out. When I was still trying to ambulate, I had very little stamina to shop and, more often than not, I'd just grab something and make it do. Since there were very few clothes in my size that were truly attractive, it didn't matter very much. I wore alot of black pants and simple sweaters or blouses.)
My one difficulty in this, however, is that I am a little bit fashion schizophrenic. I can't settle on a style. I love them all... Bohemian, classy Chanel, frills and ruffles, pencil skirts and twinsets, BIG jewelry, simple pearls, short skirts and tights with ankle boots and a low cut top, business suit. WHO AM I???
I'm at a strange and exciting time in my life. Essentially, with fashion, I have the opportunity to project an image and I'm not sure who it is I want to project or what I want to project that impacts the world the way I want to impact it. (So many people with disabilities pay little attention to grooming and dress and that perpetuates negative stereotypes of disability. I want to be different. I want people to see me and do a double take and think to themselves, "Wow, maybe disability is different than I thought. Maybe it's not tragic or ugly or asexual.")
So, I am in the midst of a vast experimental phase, trying new things, and trying to find who I am in the midst of tensions. For instance:
1) Trying to dress stylishly without looking like a teenager or a matron. I'm at an in-between age that seems to be in fashion no-man's land. Too old for Junior styles, too young for the (ugly) Women's department. I am erring on the side of dressing younger, rather than older, and hope it doesn't look silly. (My 18 year-old daughter finds my new clothing a bit disconcerting. I can't decide if she is a good fashion consultant and I need to listen to her or if she is just discomforted by change and wants me to be familiar, old mom.)
2)Dressing to be alluring without dressing trampy. (A little peak of cleavage is a good thing. Too much cleavage, however, is hoochie mama. How much is too much??? Who decides???)
3)How do I wear dresses/skirts without exposing the goods? Anybody watching while I'm getting into my SUV might get more than they bargained for. Since I'm wearing tights, there really isn't a possibility of anybody seeing anything, but it would still have the feel of being provocative and exhibitionist. How do I get around that? (Or do I exploit it? Ha. Just kidding!)
It's going to be fun to experiment with styles as I discover my fashion sense and to observe how people respond to different images. Gotta go. More shopping.
My one difficulty in this, however, is that I am a little bit fashion schizophrenic. I can't settle on a style. I love them all... Bohemian, classy Chanel, frills and ruffles, pencil skirts and twinsets, BIG jewelry, simple pearls, short skirts and tights with ankle boots and a low cut top, business suit. WHO AM I???
I'm at a strange and exciting time in my life. Essentially, with fashion, I have the opportunity to project an image and I'm not sure who it is I want to project or what I want to project that impacts the world the way I want to impact it. (So many people with disabilities pay little attention to grooming and dress and that perpetuates negative stereotypes of disability. I want to be different. I want people to see me and do a double take and think to themselves, "Wow, maybe disability is different than I thought. Maybe it's not tragic or ugly or asexual.")
So, I am in the midst of a vast experimental phase, trying new things, and trying to find who I am in the midst of tensions. For instance:
1) Trying to dress stylishly without looking like a teenager or a matron. I'm at an in-between age that seems to be in fashion no-man's land. Too old for Junior styles, too young for the (ugly) Women's department. I am erring on the side of dressing younger, rather than older, and hope it doesn't look silly. (My 18 year-old daughter finds my new clothing a bit disconcerting. I can't decide if she is a good fashion consultant and I need to listen to her or if she is just discomforted by change and wants me to be familiar, old mom.)
2)Dressing to be alluring without dressing trampy. (A little peak of cleavage is a good thing. Too much cleavage, however, is hoochie mama. How much is too much??? Who decides???)
3)How do I wear dresses/skirts without exposing the goods? Anybody watching while I'm getting into my SUV might get more than they bargained for. Since I'm wearing tights, there really isn't a possibility of anybody seeing anything, but it would still have the feel of being provocative and exhibitionist. How do I get around that? (Or do I exploit it? Ha. Just kidding!)
It's going to be fun to experiment with styles as I discover my fashion sense and to observe how people respond to different images. Gotta go. More shopping.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
She Wore a Skirt (and loved it!)
I realized yesterday that half of my lifetime has passed since I paid attention to fashion, makeup, nail polish and such. Yes, twenty-five years! When I was fresh out of college with my first grown-up job, I shopped endlessly and had a great wardrobe. Shoes, purses, jewelry to go with every outfit. A closet full of designer labels. It mattered to me, ALOT.
Then I got married and had babies and became a stay-at-home mom, and fashion morphed into function: stirrup pants with tunic tops, jumpers with turtlenecks. I dressed and looked like a kindergarten teacher. Then, about the time my kids became adolescents, my disability really started progressing. I became depressed, gained weight, and basically didn't give a crap about my appearance... my subconscious attitude was "Why bother. I'm screwed in the physical realm anyhow." Then, I became a Christian and thought I had better, loftier things to attend to than putting on lipstick... like changing the world. While at the height of saving everybody else,about two years ago, a homeless, recovering alcoholic told me I would be taken alot more seriously if I didn't look like her.
Ouch. WAKE UP CALL!!! I immediately began a quest to dress better, which was incredibly difficult since I was obese, could not wear shoes on my swollen feet, and was basically a physical train-wreck. (It's only looking back that I see where I was. At the time, engrossed in helping people, I was oblivious to my own need to be saved.)
Sometimes salvation comes through the backdoor. Back in March, when my world crumbled, I had nothing to do and nobody to save. In the midst of the confusion and the loss of bearings, I focused on the only thing that was left: me. Oh, I lamented and mourned and wanted real work to do and people to help. Instead, in the absence of that, I rode my Nustep. and rode it. and rode it. and cried.
Yesterday was one of those days where you suddenly see that life has changed even while you didn't realize it was changing. I spent most of the day trying on clothes. For the first time in ten years, I dressed in front of a full length mirror that I had placed in my bedroom. I had been shopping for the past several weeks (online, ebay, department stores, and thrift stores) and had piles of clothes to sort through... to try to re-learn what I knew at age 25: that looking good is an art and it takes work. Not everything works on every body. Compounding that, a disabled body brings a slew of additional challenges.
Just take trying on clothes, for instance. The average able-bodied person bops into the fitting room with an armload of clothes. Stands, stoops, twists, turns, tugs and returns to the racks for more armloads of clothes. I, on the other hand, don't have the physical stamina for that. Usually, I buy clothes that might work and try them on, a little at a time, at home. Most go back to the store, which entails another laborious shopping expedition. (I don't just park in the fire lane and dash into the store for a two minute return. Even that trip has to be carefully orchestrated and planned.)
Yesterday, I tried on tights. With paralyzed legs, something as simple as putting on a pair of tights is a challenge. I reached over and lifted my left leg and set it on my right thigh. Then I started rolling the tights over my foot, which slipped and fell to the floor. I repeated this until I got the tights over my foot. Then I repeated that for my right foot. With the tights pulled to my thighs, I stood up from my wheelchair and tried to quickly pull them up the rest of the way. (Quickly because I have terrible balance.) Ha! Ain't nothing quick about trying to pull tights (think about the name!) over size 18 hips. I thought about wearing them scrunched at mid-thigh, but was so excited about the fashion doors that tights could open, that I persisted. In order to gain better balance, I put my forehead against the wall. The resultant trapezoid formed between the wall and my two feet gave me the stability to coax (read, wrestle) those tights (did I buy toddler sized by mistake?)over my womanly hips. And then I looked down and saw I had pulled a large snag in the fabric and had to start all over again! But it was worth the effort and more!
For the first time in ten years, I wore a skirt! It was a cute, military styled knee-length khaki skirt. (And size 18! If you had told me 25 years ago that one day I would be delighted to be small enough to fit into a size 18 skirt, that would have sounded totally nuts!) With my gunmetal gray tights, new pewter-colored flats, red sweater set and gray pearls, I looked fantastic. It took an entire day of trying on clothes, and discarding items that just didn't work on my body (like long shirts or skirts... I couldn't believe that I looked GOOD in thigh length skirts!!!!) but the end result was a polished, cute, fun outfit. I spent extra time on my hair and makeup, and for the first time in a long, long, long time, I felt like my exterior matched my interior. It was one of the best days of my life.
Two years ago, I couldn't wear shoes on my swollen feet. I had wounds on my legs. I was a size 24. I dried my hair by hanging my head out the window. I rarely wore makeup.
Yesterday, I had polished nails, cute shoes (still a challenge to find cute shoes for my still partially swollen feet), LEGS!!!, great hair (getting caramel colored hi-lites next week), and I felt like the bell of the ball.
I could write all day about the wonder of it all, but, hey, I have shopping to do.
And by the way, this is not a Madison-avenue, fear-based, vanity trip. This is saying to myself and to the world, "An overweight, wheelchair-using woman can believe she is worth of this kind of honor and attention and she can live out the beauty that she feels inside." Maybe that changes the world without trying to change the world.
Then I got married and had babies and became a stay-at-home mom, and fashion morphed into function: stirrup pants with tunic tops, jumpers with turtlenecks. I dressed and looked like a kindergarten teacher. Then, about the time my kids became adolescents, my disability really started progressing. I became depressed, gained weight, and basically didn't give a crap about my appearance... my subconscious attitude was "Why bother. I'm screwed in the physical realm anyhow." Then, I became a Christian and thought I had better, loftier things to attend to than putting on lipstick... like changing the world. While at the height of saving everybody else,about two years ago, a homeless, recovering alcoholic told me I would be taken alot more seriously if I didn't look like her.
Ouch. WAKE UP CALL!!! I immediately began a quest to dress better, which was incredibly difficult since I was obese, could not wear shoes on my swollen feet, and was basically a physical train-wreck. (It's only looking back that I see where I was. At the time, engrossed in helping people, I was oblivious to my own need to be saved.)
Sometimes salvation comes through the backdoor. Back in March, when my world crumbled, I had nothing to do and nobody to save. In the midst of the confusion and the loss of bearings, I focused on the only thing that was left: me. Oh, I lamented and mourned and wanted real work to do and people to help. Instead, in the absence of that, I rode my Nustep. and rode it. and rode it. and cried.
Yesterday was one of those days where you suddenly see that life has changed even while you didn't realize it was changing. I spent most of the day trying on clothes. For the first time in ten years, I dressed in front of a full length mirror that I had placed in my bedroom. I had been shopping for the past several weeks (online, ebay, department stores, and thrift stores) and had piles of clothes to sort through... to try to re-learn what I knew at age 25: that looking good is an art and it takes work. Not everything works on every body. Compounding that, a disabled body brings a slew of additional challenges.
Just take trying on clothes, for instance. The average able-bodied person bops into the fitting room with an armload of clothes. Stands, stoops, twists, turns, tugs and returns to the racks for more armloads of clothes. I, on the other hand, don't have the physical stamina for that. Usually, I buy clothes that might work and try them on, a little at a time, at home. Most go back to the store, which entails another laborious shopping expedition. (I don't just park in the fire lane and dash into the store for a two minute return. Even that trip has to be carefully orchestrated and planned.)
Yesterday, I tried on tights. With paralyzed legs, something as simple as putting on a pair of tights is a challenge. I reached over and lifted my left leg and set it on my right thigh. Then I started rolling the tights over my foot, which slipped and fell to the floor. I repeated this until I got the tights over my foot. Then I repeated that for my right foot. With the tights pulled to my thighs, I stood up from my wheelchair and tried to quickly pull them up the rest of the way. (Quickly because I have terrible balance.) Ha! Ain't nothing quick about trying to pull tights (think about the name!) over size 18 hips. I thought about wearing them scrunched at mid-thigh, but was so excited about the fashion doors that tights could open, that I persisted. In order to gain better balance, I put my forehead against the wall. The resultant trapezoid formed between the wall and my two feet gave me the stability to coax (read, wrestle) those tights (did I buy toddler sized by mistake?)over my womanly hips. And then I looked down and saw I had pulled a large snag in the fabric and had to start all over again! But it was worth the effort and more!
For the first time in ten years, I wore a skirt! It was a cute, military styled knee-length khaki skirt. (And size 18! If you had told me 25 years ago that one day I would be delighted to be small enough to fit into a size 18 skirt, that would have sounded totally nuts!) With my gunmetal gray tights, new pewter-colored flats, red sweater set and gray pearls, I looked fantastic. It took an entire day of trying on clothes, and discarding items that just didn't work on my body (like long shirts or skirts... I couldn't believe that I looked GOOD in thigh length skirts!!!!) but the end result was a polished, cute, fun outfit. I spent extra time on my hair and makeup, and for the first time in a long, long, long time, I felt like my exterior matched my interior. It was one of the best days of my life.
Two years ago, I couldn't wear shoes on my swollen feet. I had wounds on my legs. I was a size 24. I dried my hair by hanging my head out the window. I rarely wore makeup.
Yesterday, I had polished nails, cute shoes (still a challenge to find cute shoes for my still partially swollen feet), LEGS!!!, great hair (getting caramel colored hi-lites next week), and I felt like the bell of the ball.
I could write all day about the wonder of it all, but, hey, I have shopping to do.
And by the way, this is not a Madison-avenue, fear-based, vanity trip. This is saying to myself and to the world, "An overweight, wheelchair-using woman can believe she is worth of this kind of honor and attention and she can live out the beauty that she feels inside." Maybe that changes the world without trying to change the world.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Something About Lynna
Last night, while exercising, I had the tv on in the background and found myself laughing at a scene in "Something about Mary", a comedy that was produced, what, ten years ago? My laughter turned into dismay, however.
Quick plot overview: Boy likes girl in high school. Girl moves away. Ten years later, boy hires PI to find girl. PI falls for girl (played by the lovely, sprightly Cameron Diaz). In order to pursue the girl for his own, PI lies to boy that girl has gained weight. "Not bad for deuce or deuce fifty." Dismay crosses boys face. PI goes on to say that she uses a wheelchair. Boy's dismay turns into despair. Oh, and she has four kids, never been married, and lives in the projects! The plot line leaves no doubt that the writers of this spoof were seeking a caricature of the worst possible scenario a guy could imagine for the high school prom princess of his youth.
The movie proceeds with the guy overcoming his disgust and pity at the thought of his sweetheart's fate, and he sets out to find her anyhow. He is portrayed as noble. A man of rare valor and depth. A man willing to overlook her porky crippled state with high hopes that he might rescue her.
Hollywood! You got it exactly wrong. This overweight, wheelchair using, very smart, very accomplished, attractive woman says, "Please stop perpetuating the pity party! Please stop with the shallow and untrue portrayal of people with disabilities as pathetic."
Hollywood, you might be unable to see beauty beyond the shallow size 2 botox box, but I'm here to tell you and the world that a 200 pound woman in a wheelchair can be strong, intelligent, sexy, powerful, brave, loving, beautiful and a "catch" for any guy who is smart enough and worthy enough to earn her affection.
Hollywood, you write whatever plot line you want for your silly tales. I'm living my own drama and in it, I am the beautiful heroine. In it I am the prom princess grown up to use a wheelchair and to glide in regal splendor. Hollywood, THAT's an interesting story. Your version... well... just a little boring.
When you're ready to tell a good story, send my agent a proposal.
Quick plot overview: Boy likes girl in high school. Girl moves away. Ten years later, boy hires PI to find girl. PI falls for girl (played by the lovely, sprightly Cameron Diaz). In order to pursue the girl for his own, PI lies to boy that girl has gained weight. "Not bad for deuce or deuce fifty." Dismay crosses boys face. PI goes on to say that she uses a wheelchair. Boy's dismay turns into despair. Oh, and she has four kids, never been married, and lives in the projects! The plot line leaves no doubt that the writers of this spoof were seeking a caricature of the worst possible scenario a guy could imagine for the high school prom princess of his youth.
The movie proceeds with the guy overcoming his disgust and pity at the thought of his sweetheart's fate, and he sets out to find her anyhow. He is portrayed as noble. A man of rare valor and depth. A man willing to overlook her porky crippled state with high hopes that he might rescue her.
Hollywood! You got it exactly wrong. This overweight, wheelchair using, very smart, very accomplished, attractive woman says, "Please stop perpetuating the pity party! Please stop with the shallow and untrue portrayal of people with disabilities as pathetic."
Hollywood, you might be unable to see beauty beyond the shallow size 2 botox box, but I'm here to tell you and the world that a 200 pound woman in a wheelchair can be strong, intelligent, sexy, powerful, brave, loving, beautiful and a "catch" for any guy who is smart enough and worthy enough to earn her affection.
Hollywood, you write whatever plot line you want for your silly tales. I'm living my own drama and in it, I am the beautiful heroine. In it I am the prom princess grown up to use a wheelchair and to glide in regal splendor. Hollywood, THAT's an interesting story. Your version... well... just a little boring.
When you're ready to tell a good story, send my agent a proposal.
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