Being One-Legged
Man, it is weird sometimes being one-legged. All sorts of crazy stuff happens to you that doesn't really happen to other people.
A normal person messes up their knee, they need surgery. I just drop it off for 24 hours and its all tuned up when I come in the next morning.
A normal person breaks their leg and they need an ambulance and a cast. I break my leg and I need an Allen wrench and some brake grease.
A normal person puts their pants on one leg at a time. I put my pants on earlier in the week and then slide the other leg in whenever its time to go out.
And when I say normal person, I mean a bipod. Us monopods qualify as quasi-handicapped. The kind of handicapped where if I'm wearing long pants you're like "Is he limping? Or just that cool?" The answer is both.
I feel bad sometimes stealing the handicapped space, like I'm maybe not handicapped enough. Like the next guy that comes along is going to be missing both legs. But he shouldn't be driving any way, Crazy No Legs. What a silly guy.
But I can spot a handicapped spot from a mile away. It's like a sixth sense I have. Like when blind people's hearing gets better. "Whoa, we don't have to park out here. There's a handicapped spot on the first row, second from the end. A geriatric has been pulling out of it since we left the house."
Though sometimes when I get out of the car people don't believe I'm handicapped. They want to see some sort of identification or handicapped membership card. Check out the plates. See that wheelchair guy? Yeah, that's me. I'm just walking a little more these days.
I get the "tsk tsk" or the skeptical glance as I walk off from my car. Thank you for protecting the parking spaces, Mr. Disabled Security Officer. What would we do without you? Wait, where's your badge? Oh, you don't have one either.
Sometimes it takes a bold approach to reach the slow ones. A wrinkled, grey hair over 70 is giving me the old "stink eye" and I'm supposed to response in a language that she might possibly understand before next Tuesday. "Here Grandma." Then I rip off my leg and hand it to her. "You hold this while I get some eggs. I'll be right back" and I hop in the other direction. She's left cradling an appendage while I'm hopping around the grocery store like the friggin' Easter bunny.
And at sporting events I can move right up to the front of the parking lot. It's like having a backstage pass at a concert and I know the band. We pull up to the rent-a-cop, who sees the blue hang tag, gives us the wave, and the "move along, sir." Right up to the front. People making fake IDs that say they're 21 AND have a deformity. Growing facial hair and dragging a limb.
I guess this is to make up for security check points at airports and stuff that redefines paranoia. Everyone else is putting their keys and cell phone in the tray. I'm just strolling through because I know when I get to the other side they're going to think I'm Robocop. "Why don't you just save yourself the trouble, because that wand is gonna beep from here down, pal." And full cavity search is an understatement. I feel like I have to get the person's number afterwards. "I'll look you up next time I'm in town. I had fun. You were a real gentleman."
There's always controversy over what people should call 'us.' In this overly politically correct world, everyone wants to make sure I'm getting called the right thing. "What is it like being... Well, what do you like to be called? Disabled? Handicapped? Walking challenged?" Here's an idea. How about Jeff? I don't ask you if you want to be called "fat," "obese," or "gigantic." I start with your name and keep the judgments to myself. And you should too, unless you want rubber, carbon fiber, steel, and titanium up your huge ass. In that order.
Some might say I'm being kind of cynical about the whole thing. But you would be too if everything was referred to as "easy as riding a bike" and you never got off training wheels because pedaling is harder than it looks. Or when your leg falls asleep you're basically screwed for a few minutes.
Most people don't know how to deal with someone missing a leg. They don't know whether to say something or not. Because the only contact they've had with that is either:
A) pirates. Which there aren't a whole lot of. The only major booty around to plunder anymore is in J-Lo's pants. OHHHHHHHHHH SNAP!! I DID NOT JUST GO THERE!
or
B) Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump. So for the twenty-second time for all you uncomfortable people out there, yes I think he was a noble character. And thank you Gary Sinise for bringing the crippled to the masses. We salute you.
So, that information should help you next time you meet a one-legged person. You have a little insight into their barely different world. You don't have to run away in fear. Please don't. We can't keep up.
wow, two big ass jokes in one post. an unexpected bonus.
