I'm Younger Than My Scooter Makes Me Look

I took The Little Boy to the cafe today and a man who is old enough to be my grandfather called me ma'am. A group of elderly gentlemen was enjoying their morning coffee and chat, and they were blocking much of the sidewalk.

No biggie. I smiled and was about to chirp a cheerful "excuse me," when one of them asked, 'are we in your way, ma'am?'

I can't remember what happened next. I hope I was still smiling and that I said "thank you," but all I was thinking when I rolled up to meet my dad and baby was "fucking scooter, making me look like an old lady! Ma'am. Ma'am!? It's bad enough when I get ma'am'd by a teenage busboy."

Grumble.

The funny thing is that, as long as my gray's are nice and dyed, I actually look much younger than my 39 years.

Everyday Humiliations

I picked The Boy up at school the other day, just like I've done hundreds of other times. As we were leaving I heard the pounding of small feet approaching so I closed the gate behind me. I turned as we were getting in the car and saw a boy - the presumed source of the noise - and his mom as they were leaving.

I smiled and said, "Oh sorry. Didn't mean to close the gate on you, it's just that I heard little feet running up behind me."

The mom looked at me and said, as though I was a child myself, "Well we usually DO like to keep the gate closed so good job." Then she pursed her lips, crinkled her nose and gave me a fake, vacant smile as she carried on through the parking lot with her kid.

As I strapped The Boy into his car seat I could feel my neck and ear getting hot and my eyes tingling, a sign that I didn't know whether I was mad or sad. The short drive home, when I was replaying the whole 30 second exchange over and over in my head, led me to believe that it was definitely anger I was feeling.

I'm over it now.

Then this morning, The Boy's first ever last day of school, I went to leave after dropping him off and my sweet boy went to hold the gate open for me. There was a crowd of parents and kids waiting to get in so he held the gate open for them while I waited beside him, smiling and saying hi. Then I notice a perfectly able bodied cow stepping out of a black Lexus SUV, one without a disabled placard or plates, walk through the gate with her spawn and look down at me like I was something stuck to her shoe.

The thing is this wench ALWAYS parks in the disabled spot, probably because it's 'just for a sec' while she drops her kid off. Well guess what, lady, EVERYONE is dropping their kid/s off. You're not special!

You know who is special? Me! The cripple whose very existence seems to bother you. So stay the hell out of the handicap spots!

Heat is My Cryptonite and Summer is My Crypton

This morning I took The Boy to school then took The Little Boy out to enjoy a coffee with his grandpa and friend of ours, and it was soooooo hot. My phone says it's supposed to get up to almost 100 degrees today, and my numb right pinky concurs.

It's mid-May and I can already feel my myelin melting. Thank God for air conditioning, but it's not like staying in my house for the next four months is really an option.

Blerg. I really hate Summer.

I'm Not Drunk...

I have MS.

That was my line for yeeaaaaars. Run into a wall, "I'm not drunk, I have MS." Stagger into a stranger, "I'm not drunk, I have MS." Fall and end up splayed on the sidewalk after leaving a bar where you've had a drink, one drink, with friends. Well this is awkward, "I'm not drunk, I have MS."

For the better part of a decade I've smiled sweetly and apologized profusely for making an ass out of myself, but I'm all done bending over backwards, sometimes literally, to prove I'm anything other than what I am - someone who has been hobbled by MS.

My myelin's been scarred, my muscles have been weakened and my waist has thickened. Not that I was ever Miss Athletic, but it's now official - I am disabled and I look it. I am a fairly young looking thirty-something, but I have the stamina and strength of a nonagenarian. I mostly get around with my scooter - I call it Jaro, which is also the name for my wheelchair. I have a cane and a walker too.

'Tis a far cry from the twenty-something me who traveled around Europe carrying more than half my body weight in a backpack or who traversed the hills of Berkeley with 50 pounds of books crammed into a book bag.

Yup, things are different, and I'm trying to get to the point where I can say, truthfully, that that's okay.