Feeling: silly
Listening to: Vast - You
Reading/Watching: Vanity Fair, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, & The Company

You're so brave.

Most people would be flattered by these words. And Bri is, in a way. She also wants people to just not mention it.

People have reacted in different ways when they learn she has prosthetic feet. Some ask a million questions about how it happened. Some shrug it off and change the subject. Some mention a friend or cousin who's handicapped. The worst are the ones who get embarrassed, can't handle it, or don't know what to say, so they simply retreat, giving a thin excuse.

Kids are kind of funny about it- I've seen her four-year-old cousin stumble back in surprise the first time he saw her prosthetics, then get excited and ask, "There's a robot under there?!" One of the priest's daughters at her church asked all sorts of questions about what it was like, then ran off, saying in disgust, "Mom, I'm never getting my feet cut off!" One little girl came up to us in a mall and said, "Do you know your pants have no feet?"

People are always telling her she's so strong, she's so brave. I think at first it was good for them to tell her that, to remind her or something, but now it tends to irritate her. In her own words, "What, do they expect me to curl up and die instead?"

Although, I have to admit, usually she'd prefer people not to draw attention to it, simply because she'd rather forget it for a few minutes at a time. That's why she wears long pants all the time, why she's always anxiously asking whether I can see the cuffs gather around her non-ankle. She's tried buying long skirts before, but never had the guts to wear them, because she was always afraid to flash a titanium shin.

Friday, when we went to see Vanity Fair, I was surprised to see her wearing a pair of white shorts. No longer concealing everything, now the whole world could see the progression of shorts, a strip of thigh, and then her liners and prosthetics, with painted toenails and strappy black sandals on rubber feet that abruptly end at the ankle. She'd just had the fiberglass legs done in a new pattern, so they were encased in pink Care Bears.

She said she'd just been to her prosthetist, hence the shorts, so she could take the feet on and off easily. She hadn't had time to go home and change. I was sort of proud of her for not wanting to push the movie back so she could put on pants.

Of course, it had its drawbacks. People stared. I can't blame them, but I've come to dislike the thin, polite smile that always comes once they realize they're caught staring. At least say hello, if you're going to put someone through an entire visual inspection. Same goes for when I'm out with Nimsay. They don't say anything, they don't carefully look away, they just stare. I'm sure it's even more annoying to her.

The crowning glory of the night was when we were leaving the restaurant we chose for dinner, and some random guy with spiky ice-blond hair and a faint European accent came over, sweeping past me and taking Bri by the hand.

He exclaimed continually, "I have to escort you, I must walk you to your car, look at you, isn't she stunning, so daring, so beautiful..." he took her purse in one hand and tucked her hand around his other arm, rambling on while I followed, bemused.

I wasn't sure whether I should do the dutiful friend thing and rescue her from her unwanted admirer, or the other dutiful friend thing and keep out of the way while she flirted. Honestly, I couldn't tell whether she was interested or not, because she didn't seem to be saying anything to quell him (and believe me, she knows plenty of things that can shut a guy down cold), and she also didn't really seem to be saying anything encouraging. Actually, he was talking so much, she didn't have a chance to say much of anything at all.

Finally, after he'd told her all about himself, given her his number, gotten her number, mentioned that he loved to cook and was staying in his parents' condo, and mentioned his divorce and son, he took her keys from her purse, unlocked her door for her, opened it, helped her in her seat, and tried to buckle her in (she intercepted at that point, and did it herself). He said his lengthy goodbyes, kissed her hand, closed her door, and she started the car and pulled out of the parking lot rather hastily.

She sent me a baffled glance, then said, "I wonder if he's a devotee."

"Huh?"

"That's the word they have for people who are into having sex with amputees and handicapped people."

I almost lost it at that point. "Is it... okay if I laugh now?"

"Yes."

So I did. Loudly, and for a long time. I laughed until my stomach hurt. Thankfully, she laughed too.

Finally, I caught my breath. "So... are you going to let him cook for you in his parents' condo?"

"No."

"Are you going to call him?"

"No!"

"Do you want him to call you?"

"NO!"

I laughed some more. "Did you give him a fake number?"

She paused. "Crap. I should have. Why couldn't I have lied and told him I have a boyfriend?"

"So you can lie to our theology professor about skipping class, but you can't lie to creepy guys who accost you in an Applebee's?"

"Shut up."

I sat there enjoying myself at her expense for a few more seconds, then asked, "Next time, do you want me to pretend I'm your jealous lesbian girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Would that make me a devotee?"

"Only if we have sex."

One day, there will be a book about the depths of our priceless, semi-schizophrenic relationship... if this journal isn't already enough of one.

Comments? 2 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.