tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56806386171457974282024-03-28T00:23:01.751-07:00Young And HipYou say limp. I say swagger.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-10028544910248091262015-06-09T23:06:00.003-07:002015-06-10T12:32:30.196-07:00Coming Down From the Mountain<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">They say that not all who wander are lost. That statement,
however, does not apply to me. I am pretty much always lost. My Grade 8 Social
Studies teacher once told me that women are bad navigators because they
lack naturally occurring metals in their nose that act as a compass. (He also once
did my astrological chart and told me that I would be very successful in life
but unfortunately no one would ever love me…but that’s a blog post and/or
therapy session for another day). By that logic, I must have terminally low
quantities of nose metals because no one can throw a GPS into fits like I can.
In the times before smartphones, I routinely had to phone friends to ask questions
like, “Hypothetically, how would one end up in Kentucky when one was trying to
get to Chicago?” or “I am at a place with a big tree and kind of a weird bird
and it’s raining. Could you come and get me?”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Training for the <a href="https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/FundraisingPage.aspx?registrationID=2781067&langPref=en-CA#&panel1-1" target="_blank">Scotiabank Half Marathon</a> has put my
navigational deficiency into sharp relief. I tried to walk North Vancouver,
discovered the pedestrian path of the bridge was closed for construction, and
suddenly I’m in the woods going past tree forts built by homeless people and
someone comes out of the bushes and I start to run ("run") and, poof, I’m in Burnaby. I
attempted to make it 14.5 kilometers to my parents’ house in New Westminster and
18.5 kilometers later found myself slogging up the massive Canada Way hill,
once again mysteriously in Burnaby. The only silver lining is that I’ve put
myself weeks ahead of my training schedule just by adding unintentional kilometers
on to every training session.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABOXlp-CQyO0HPayGpL6EomJ0tReyUojJHZdSsumlTPoHYkZMIPjLhwSqkxJRl8STLdjmxvXIV_LE5SHK6Nr67EJ7lFD-GF967G3kf5FvyEM06wUDGL1ARvqBXc1mswxdYNOTQkScL8g/s1600/20150509_141738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABOXlp-CQyO0HPayGpL6EomJ0tReyUojJHZdSsumlTPoHYkZMIPjLhwSqkxJRl8STLdjmxvXIV_LE5SHK6Nr67EJ7lFD-GF967G3kf5FvyEM06wUDGL1ARvqBXc1mswxdYNOTQkScL8g/s400/20150509_141738.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New blog series: "Where's Arley Now? No, really, where am I?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My amazing personal trainer and pilates instructor <a href="http://christiestoll.com/" target="_blank">Christie Stoll</a>
recently lent me the book Wild by Cheryl Strayed (aka that movie where Reese
Witherspoon yells at trees). There’s a scene in the book where Cheryl – who is
hiking the 1000+ mile Pacific Crest Trail -- encounters an unexpectedly snowy
pass. Some of her fellow hikers choose to slog through it, but she decides to
come down to go around the dangerous area. When reading this scene, my first
thought was, “Oh, sure, she takes the easy way out.” (In fairness, I would not
have even started the Pacific Crest Trail because I would have taken a wrong
turn on the first day and ended up in the ocean). Later in the book, Cheryl
Strayed learns that those who tried to push through the snowy pass actually
ended up exhausting themselves and giving up on the whole hike. Following her
instinct to come down and avoid danger was a smart one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been trying to take this lesson to heart. When you
have my litany of muscoskeletal problems – one wonky knee, two arthritic feet,
three subluxed ribs and a partridge in the pear tree – the chance of injuring
yourself is high. Through most of May, it felt like some higher power was
playing a very bad game of Operation with my body. First, the arthritis in my
feet started to flare up. Then, part of the top of my left foot started to burn and tingle – back
problems? Shoe problems? Flesh-eating disease caused by those shoes I bought
for $5 from a man selling them out of bucket on the street in East Van? – and my subluxed rib
came out. Finally, my knee decided to tap out.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will save you the history of my knee problems, but suffice
to say that if the children’s rhyme about the hip bone being connected to the
knee bone is right, then when the ass muscle isn’t connected to anything, and
the hip bone’s connected to several pounds of reinforced titanium, the knee
bone has a hard time staying where it’s supposed to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Yes, even my knee cap wanders off and gets lost). Three
weeks ago, it started locking up and I began to feel an awful tearing sensation in the back of
my knee. All of this was new. When it seized up for five minutes in a pilates
class, I went to the walk-in clinic. Was it a bone chip? A piece of floating cartilage?
Had I managed to contract Runner’s Knee without ever running a step? No one
knew. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I took Cheryl Strayed’s advice and came down from the
mountain. I stopped training and focused on icing, taking anti-inflammatories,
stretching and trying not to sulkily spend hours listing to that John Prine
song that goes “sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.” For someone
who has a long and storied history of pushing herself too far (see: that time I
fractured my back and decided to treat it with two strips of athletic tape and
Percocet and won an MVP award but scored on the wrong basket once and also lost
feeling in my left arch for two years) this is actually a big deal for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was not sure whether I would be able to do the half
marathon at all, which was upsetting to me because my friends and family have been so amazingly generous and I did not want to let them down. After several long weeks, however, the swelling’s gone back
down and the pain is less, though the knee still clicks and locks up on
occasion. I’ve lost a lot of fitness and stamina in my weeks off, but I
have made peace with the fact that even if I don’t complete the course under three hours, I will count even dragging my carcass across that finish
line at all to be a success. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I originally decided to do the Vancouver Scotiabank Half
Marathon for two reasons. The first was to give back to the community that’s
given me so much. The second, however, was to prove that my version of success
doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. No matter how hard I train, I will
probably always be the last one across the finish line. I will still be passed
by old men with knee socks and fanny packs on the Grouse Grind. My downward
facing dog and my backwards bend will look pretty much identical. And, though
it has nothing to do with my disability, my lack of navigational ability will
probably mean that probably 50% of the time I’m going to accidentally end up in
Burnaby. But at least I’m out there, slogging away, finding a new normal. Gimpy
little baby steps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And, hey, if you want to donate to my Scotiabank Half
Marathon quest, you can do so <a href="https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/FundraisingPage.aspx?registrationID=2781067&langPref=en-CA#&panel1-2" target="_blank">here</a>. You'll get a tax receipt and a personalized thank you
letter and also a big, sweaty hug if I see you on race day).</div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0cm;
mso-para-margin-right:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0cm;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Thank you all for your support.</o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-16551256955519415942015-03-29T13:22:00.003-07:002015-03-29T13:37:37.736-07:00Walking the Scotiabank Half Marathon Post Hip Replacement<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On June 28<sup>th</sup>, 2009, I stood out front of UBC
Hospital wearing a pair of leather Mary Janes. I was not allowed to leave the
hospital barefoot, but my legs were so weak that I could only walk by scrunching
my toes along the floor. I tried to take a step, but the rubber soles only
scuffed against the pavement. I was fixed in place by a forcefield made of half
a pound of rubber.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2c5EXN1YWX7fBBqQPwtk6EbCIWQTEGbRvRQQQnIUuSJmSnAWiuNojvt9olhbfbTxMA_QU8NXD8WHWS6nbkvyvdMt0eX6vybLrAafIn3oLZXXFgfs3FKZSuWbrUQ2Vs03GvpsjqsqE-Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-03-29+at+1.10.12+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh2c5EXN1YWX7fBBqQPwtk6EbCIWQTEGbRvRQQQnIUuSJmSnAWiuNojvt9olhbfbTxMA_QU8NXD8WHWS6nbkvyvdMt0eX6vybLrAafIn3oLZXXFgfs3FKZSuWbrUQ2Vs03GvpsjqsqE-Y/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-03-29+at+1.10.12+PM.png" height="161" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mika and I on a very slow walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That summer, I walked barefoot around the block as my hip
replacement clunked around like a loose heel on a shoe. Sometimes my cat would
join me. She would get annoyed by my slowness and sprint ahead in and out of
bushes, then tire halfway through and flop down on someone’s driveway until my
mom carried her the rest of the way home. I did my exercises twice a day in my
childhood bedroom, napping, fading in and out of shows about home renovators
and people with 19 children. At night, I slept under a ceiling fan that,
decades ago, I had decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars and letters that read
Arley Was Here. When the fan turned on, the letters blurred into a glowing
circle over my head as I laid awake worrying that I would never get better,
that nothing would improve, I would be stuck forever in this bedroom with the
ceiling fan announcing that Arley Was Here Still Living With Her Parents And Had
Not Worn Anything But Gym Shorts And T-Shirts In Over A Month.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things did, of course, get better. I went to physio at
Burnaby Hospital’s hips and knees clinic. I found a new surgeon, who diagnosed
me with a torn gluteus medius, and I underwent another surgery to try to repair
the gluteus medius and the hip replacement. (The gluteus medius reattachment
failed. Cue a lifetime of half-assed jokes). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I graduated to a cane, then I ditched the cane because I thought that staggering around like a sea creature was somehow sexier than walking with an assistive device designed for old people and I was trying online dating. I earned the ire of the elderly women at deep water aerobics with my misplaced competitive drive. I wildly overestimated my physical abilities and tried to do the Grouse Grind, where I was passed by an endless parade of fit people, then children, then fat old men with their socks pulled up to their knees, then tourists limping in flip flops, but I did not die. I wildly overestimated my physical abilities and did a 20km+ hike to Garibaldi Lake, which caused all of my toenails to fall off, but which also did not kill me. I met an awesome guy, got engaged, and now boast a wardrobe that is only 30% comprised of workout gear. Okay, maybe 40%.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXuxSpsi-Nu10mTRx38I12NlT4Z6FovVh539z3JVXyr4kCQwxUPv66rwZ6_Mxs0BG8WEoXYWUPs8pHw_sygV3BOS1JbUw7746_5BiiP7WiPbmX6irnbofObD6g1ZuGAn56OD1mJvEQr0/s1600/10151400_10104115875823670_1495514183474265731_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXuxSpsi-Nu10mTRx38I12NlT4Z6FovVh539z3JVXyr4kCQwxUPv66rwZ6_Mxs0BG8WEoXYWUPs8pHw_sygV3BOS1JbUw7746_5BiiP7WiPbmX6irnbofObD6g1ZuGAn56OD1mJvEQr0/s1600/10151400_10104115875823670_1495514183474265731_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking near Squamish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I still walk like badly done stop motion animation. I
will spare you the laundry list of my physical maladies, but suffice to say
that if my muscoskeletal system was a house, it would be on Holmes on Homes. As
a former Paralympian, however, I missed having a challenge. When one of the organizations
I work for, <a href="http://www.bcwbs.ca/" target="_blank">BC Wheelchair Basketball Society</a>, was announced as a charity for
the <a href="http://www.canadarunningseries.com/svhm/" target="_blank">Scotiabank Half Marathon</a>, I once again wildly overestimated my physical
abilities and decided to sign up. If I couldn’t run it, I would just walk it,
and if walking proved too difficult I would just flail away in the direction of
the finish line until I staggered across it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because the Scotiabank Half Marathon course closes after 3
hours, I decided to test my range at the four-hour Fort Langley Half Marathon,
which unfortunately took place the day after I returned from a week working at
the Canada Winter Games. I’d decided to go hiking the day before and got my
shoes stuck in the snow, so they were damp. I was dehydrated from a week of event
coverage, where I survived pretty much on coffee, popcorn and Starbucks’
lemon-cranberry scones (carbo-loading!). I had not trained. I was running on
two hours of sleep. I remembered on my way to the race that I probably should
have brought some of those replenishing gel pack things…or at least a bottle of
water. I checked in at 6:30 am to a beautiful sunrise and wondered what the
hell I’d gotten myself into.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnLZbrQOnCAARYxYM5ifCYxGv4LpYcFAYdJY2wextGz6-rDwf5LWRnV3t_A4yEhjeum7RMKVLR5gHjhjtrsb2_d_a8gOOqep4jqvpshIEjQjcheCEoMJd4tXzRBpARlx9qOLKh-Og6GI/s1600/10991052_10104728459805460_5163248252754793181_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnLZbrQOnCAARYxYM5ifCYxGv4LpYcFAYdJY2wextGz6-rDwf5LWRnV3t_A4yEhjeum7RMKVLR5gHjhjtrsb2_d_a8gOOqep4jqvpshIEjQjcheCEoMJd4tXzRBpARlx9qOLKh-Og6GI/s1600/10991052_10104728459805460_5163248252754793181_n.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, I was optimistic. Armed with a copy of Hole’s
“Celebrity Skin,” which I listened to on repeat for the entire duration of the
race, I set off to walk 21.5 kilometers. Several people stopped to ask what was
wrong with me. Several more asked if I needed medical assistance. One suggested
an IT band brace. One suggested that the medics could be here shortly if I
needed them. A guy drove up in a car and asked if I needed help, then returned
again to tell me a story about his friend with brittle bone disease, then
returned again with a printed photo of a double amputee running a marathon to
inspire me to finish. Around the 15Km mark, my gait pattern began to resemble that of Jack Torrance's in the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDpipB4yehk" target="_blank">"Here's Johnny" scene of The Shining</a>. Still, I finished
in 3:04, and I was not last. (Eighth to last…but still).</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IiNTWzkoZzXTqbxIsnWW6MCNpZMIdhrtXYn1WXhvc7n4rDG9duIo0hHirkUOc752q7lHuMn76PPte8Iram5BqYpHhGYZc5PKzevDhnjYztjgzwj580gTZ5UlMS2F8m2kvnnftwjRyjI/s1600/10690149_10104729241748440_1544710484192137585_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IiNTWzkoZzXTqbxIsnWW6MCNpZMIdhrtXYn1WXhvc7n4rDG9duIo0hHirkUOc752q7lHuMn76PPte8Iram5BqYpHhGYZc5PKzevDhnjYztjgzwj580gTZ5UlMS2F8m2kvnnftwjRyjI/s1600/10690149_10104729241748440_1544710484192137585_n.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating after the Fort Langley Half Marathon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, on June 28<sup>th</sup> 2015, exactly six years
after I left the hospital after my first hip replacement, I’ll be walking the
Scotiabank Half Marathon in support of BC Wheelchair Basketball Society. Wheelchair
basketball changes lives. It certainly changed mine. I want to give back in a
small way to an organization that has given me so much over the years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far, I’ve been overwhelmed with the support I’ve
received. My family and friends helped me reach my fundraising minimum in about
three hours. My amazing personal trainer <a href="http://christiestoll.com/" target="_blank">Christie Stoll</a> at <a href="http://www.spartacusgym.ca/" target="_blank">Spartacus Gym</a> went
above and beyond to set me up with a strength program to correct my imbalances
and a walking plan to improve my speed. Even the sales guy at The Running Room
on Cambie turned out to be a physiotherapy student and spent nearly an hour
learning about my condition and finding me a pair of running shoes that would
improve my foot pain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0cm;
mso-para-margin-right:0cm;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0cm;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, I’m off to go walk 11.5 kilometers in the rain. I
still need to shave five minutes off my time to cross the finish line in under
three hours, but I plan to using the same strategy that allowed me to walk around
the block in under 30 minutes that summer six years ago: trusting experts,
doing a little more than yesterday, and being comfortable with being
uncomfortable. Gimpy little baby steps, yo.<br />
<br />
(If you'd like to sponsor me for the Scotiabank Half Marathon, click <a href="https://secure.e2rm.com/registrant/FundraisingPage.aspx?registrationID=2781067&langPref=en-CA" target="_blank">here</a>. I'm grateful for any contributions).<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi076_DmBBpposRaKGvxvnhxwrYTvfrYr3usqUuZXvv4jzoRHSy9xnhqRvIwXx5g0P8tjATwgIB7QJlQRJtKTb8kTFe5QJKvcAJz2ZZ8lSIPbrEmvFJzu-R-Bb4Hfe8ghReaOD9hro6uvE/s1600/ArleyBeforeAndAfter.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi076_DmBBpposRaKGvxvnhxwrYTvfrYr3usqUuZXvv4jzoRHSy9xnhqRvIwXx5g0P8tjATwgIB7QJlQRJtKTb8kTFe5QJKvcAJz2ZZ8lSIPbrEmvFJzu-R-Bb4Hfe8ghReaOD9hro6uvE/s1600/ArleyBeforeAndAfter.png" height="333" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-20443377539030370262013-11-12T00:01:00.003-08:002013-11-12T00:05:07.318-08:00The "Money Talks" ProjectMy most embarrassing moment occurred as I walked across the stage during my high school graduation. A bit of back story is needed for those who did not get to meet the stunning vision of teenage glamour I was during high-school. To keep it brief: I started high school in a bright-blue half body cast and ended it in a dragon-theme prom dress. Key themes of my high-school experience included: novelty tee-shirts ("I keep hitting the escape key but I'm still here!"), elastic-waisted jeans, text-based role-playing games and an endless rotation of crutches/canes/wheelchairs/medical devices. Oh, and I'm 6 foot 2.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm3WZ9zc4Iaj8CvrHWU9vvqhc0JpyMJf31xDMH49QTLgg5_l36nZJIPN-hv7VvwXOWtHPE1hJ7SRvtm7s8nySVui1UIGtvfVvk5JWBTivMalQZS3KKTcnjG4fKFpVzKMZ23IPpO8ri84/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-11-11+at+11.00.24+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXm3WZ9zc4Iaj8CvrHWU9vvqhc0JpyMJf31xDMH49QTLgg5_l36nZJIPN-hv7VvwXOWtHPE1hJ7SRvtm7s8nySVui1UIGtvfVvk5JWBTivMalQZS3KKTcnjG4fKFpVzKMZ23IPpO8ri84/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-11-11+at+11.00.24+PM.png" width="234" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You know what looks great with half body casts? Pigtails</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMslr_8XgyqnjTzv4pe45_jSPJ9EdP-y4R9YWWY3uAynnnTR4zxIv2keG33Kd4JyLcai3aih4r6wnHIEe-LFqJvQunQSNlbyf00CyHl4XLEvUNcb1HIZai8iNL1f8yC4GAP0fIJ5rtLo/s1600/Arleydragondress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMslr_8XgyqnjTzv4pe45_jSPJ9EdP-y4R9YWWY3uAynnnTR4zxIv2keG33Kd4JyLcai3aih4r6wnHIEe-LFqJvQunQSNlbyf00CyHl4XLEvUNcb1HIZai8iNL1f8yC4GAP0fIJ5rtLo/s400/Arleydragondress.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top of the dragon dress. There may or may not have been chopsticks in my hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
That's a long way of saying that I wasn't winning any popularity contests at New Westminster Secondary School. As I walked across the stage to get my diploma, I was mostly concentrating on:<br />
<ol>
<li>Not tripping;</li>
<li>Figuring out how to not drop my cane as I reached to get the diploma;</li>
<li>Summoning enough hip flexion to bend sufficiently for the high school guidance counselor (who was shorter than me by several inches) to turn the tassel on my mortar board from one side my head to the other;</li>
<li>Making it across the stage without fainting from the pressure of the aforementioned three items. </li>
</ol>
I sat nervously among my classmates on the stage. My name was called. My big moment had arrived. Shaking, I stood up and began my walk across the stage.<br />
<br />
And that's when it happened. The silence that followed the announcer saying my name was broken by someone yelling, "Hey Arley, lay off the steroids!!" My classmates laughed. Everyone turned to look at me. The guy who made the comment started murmuring to his buddies, praising himself for his wit. High-fives may or may not have been involved. I stared straight ahead, blushing furiously, trying not to break concentration or burst into tears. I don't remember what happened next -- other than forgetting to hug the guidance counselor in my haste to get off the stage -- but the incident remains one of the most embarrassing one of my life, despite how relatively minor it is compared to the endless Chaplin-esque highlight reel of my life. <br />
<br />
For ages, that phrase -- <i>Hey Arley, lay off the steroids</i> -- would pop into my head whenever I was feeling particularly self-conscious. On dates. While bathing suit shopping. While trying to converse with a group of short people at a loud bar. <i>Hey Arley. Lay off the steroids.</i><br />
<br />
I've been thinking about that incident a lot lately. For one, I recently picked up my old Complete Works of Oscar Wilde book and my high-school corsage fell out, sending me on a trip down memory lane. More importantly, however, I've seen an uptick in the level of stupid comments about my body from random strangers because I fractured my foot and, until recently, was stuck in an air cast. (How did I do this, you ask? By dropping a wood-block cutting board on my foot as I was cleaning up after book club. As I said: Chaplin-esque).<br />
<br />
Even though I don't use my cane as much as I should, and the homeless gentlemen who used to shout "Physiotherapy! Physiotherapy! Rehabilitation! Rehabilitation!" as I walked by has moved from his post by my house, I still get my fair share of bizarre comments from strangers on perhaps a weekly basis. You're tall! Your parents must have made you drink a lot of milk! (Yes, I am. Yes, they did). You're limping, did you sprain your ankle? (No, I did not). You're so large! Do you have a black boyfriend? (No I do not, random elderly Asian ladies, but thank you for asking).<br />
<br />
Fracturing my foot, however, meant running the gauntlet of unwanted comments every day. A dude in the grocery store noted he'd "seen a lot of broken women lately" and speculated that if I'd dropped a knife on my foot, it probably would have healed more quickly. A man in the elevator inquired as to whether I'd had pins put in and informed me that, if I had, I'd be groped at the airport by the TSA agents and I might as well get used to it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqSlBBTUz4iJJ7xB6UBYcTf27mje8FQHtkkp_e_Dk51kfP4B47XrUuiXF9ZTx_-NTnfoNsz9OqDdAkaWHInkzC4pniRbFVpr9gGFG3cb0DsQPrf3Ouu4JZlv9Px3ohuYHOU1srmmq5KU/s1600/ChrisIsEmbarrassedToDateMe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikqSlBBTUz4iJJ7xB6UBYcTf27mje8FQHtkkp_e_Dk51kfP4B47XrUuiXF9ZTx_-NTnfoNsz9OqDdAkaWHInkzC4pniRbFVpr9gGFG3cb0DsQPrf3Ouu4JZlv9Px3ohuYHOU1srmmq5KU/s400/ChrisIsEmbarrassedToDateMe.jpg" width="336" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing off the air cast in a wedding photobooth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One day I remarked to my boyfriend that if I had a dollar for every time someone said "OMG what happened to you?" I'd be rich. And then it hit me. I should donate a dollar to charity every time someone makes an unwanted comment about my body, therefore turning the incident from "awkward, embarrassing thing that made me momentarily annoyed" to "awkward, embarrassing thing that allows me to give back to charities that have impacted my life positively." My crankiness will be someone else's gain.<br />
<br />
The two charities I've decided to give to are the <b>BC Wheelchair Sports Association</b> (who introduced me to wheelchair sports, which turned my 6 foot 2, limpy body into an asset on the wheelchair basketball court) and the <b>Arthritis Society of BC</b> (since the only avascular necrosis charities are UK-based and arthritis remains my biggest challenge post hip-replacement). I've decided to call it the "Money Talks" Project, because that sounds fancier than "when people say crappy things about me I will cheer myself up by trying to get some good karma with charity donations."<br />
<br />
<b>Here are the rules:</b><br />
<ol>
<li>For every unwanted comment I get about my body by a stranger, I will donate $2 ($1 to each charity) to a maximum of $100. Please note that this comment must be by a stranger who is unaware of this game, so don't get any ideas in your head about standing outside of my apartment urging me to lay off the steroids. (I mean, you can do that for fun, but it won't result in any money given to the charity. And I might cry).</li>
<li>The comment must be given completely out of context. "Wow, you're huge! Do you have trouble getting a date?" while I'm minding my own business on the bus counts. Being asked how tall I am by a salesperson in a jeans shop while I'm bemoaning how hard it is to buy jeans does not count.</li>
<li>Once I hit $100, I'll donate the money and start again.</li>
</ol>
If you get unwarranted comments on the street because of your height/weight/disability/race/Siamese twin attached to your neck, you should join me. Pick a charity or two to donate to and soon you'll be smiling to yourself every time someone asks you how the weather is up there, or to slow down hot wheels because you might get a speeding ticket, or that their friend had success losing 50 pounds on the paleo diet.<br />
<br />
And if you want to hear what comments generate my donations, I'll tweet them on Twitter at @arley_mcneney .<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-9128004587903894292013-08-08T00:53:00.000-07:002013-08-08T10:17:57.586-07:00Arley 3.0. Or was it 4.0? <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1PYD1TvC6di-523AZ1yBMXMn3oY-pHgFbGRoAi30Bj7LhNoXY8wSpotRt7uW5-0VVDGt3NnOhuYmETaSKNiN0Jk5xuM4sUul1NO-NATqIRJGyNa0cFgRmMn0pK0pQkR9m3MEwZ2sLlA/s1600/4th+birthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1PYD1TvC6di-523AZ1yBMXMn3oY-pHgFbGRoAi30Bj7LhNoXY8wSpotRt7uW5-0VVDGt3NnOhuYmETaSKNiN0Jk5xuM4sUul1NO-NATqIRJGyNa0cFgRmMn0pK0pQkR9m3MEwZ2sLlA/s320/4th+birthday.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's my party and I'll rant about my semi-detached ass muscle if I want to</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This week, "Young and Hip" turned four years old. If this blog were a human child, it would be drawing semi-realistic pictures of horses and learning to ride a bike. (Actually, given that this blog is a 'child' of mine, eating Play-dough in the corner of the pre-school and memorizing the entire score of the Phantom of the Opera is probably more realistic). Time to celebrate with an overdue blog post! <br />
<br />
Given that none of my limbs are coming into contact with a surgical saw these days, you might think that I had run out of things to complain about. (Spoiler alert: I have not. If you don't believe me, I have a 50-minute story about trying to get my apartment's toilet replaced that I'd love to tell you). These days, I have embarked upon yet another self-improvement project. The goal: to turn gangly, limping awkwardness into supermodel chic...or at least stop <a href="http://youngandhip.blogspot.ca/2009/12/im-sorry-i-thought-you-were-traffic-cop.html" target="_blank">getting mistaken for a heroin addict</a> by any members of the law enforcement community.<br />
<br />
Because, see, in addition to having to sell a kidney to afford to live in Vancouver, one downside of the city is that practically everyone has a great ass. This is the Land that Lululemon Built, and its citizens' rear ends are sculpted by pilates and yoga and hiking and Zumba and Grouse Grinding (sounds sexier than it is) and basically springing like marble-assed Greek Gods across BC's rugged terrain. And because they have amazing bodies, they feel the need to dress them in appropriately amazing clothes. Clothes that, you know, fit. And are free from pen ink or coffee stains. And do not have drawstrings. It is enough to make a girl miss living in a small Midwestern town where not wearing the leggings-and-Uggs college-girl uniform made you look like a sartorial icon; (I heart you Champaign-Urbana!).<!--3--><br />
<br />
Since turning 30 and moving to Yoga-Land, I have discovered that I need to Put Some Effort In. Now, see, some people can decide to dress better, walk into a clothing store, and walk out with some new duds, a lighter wallet, and a renewed sense of style. This is not a thing that happens when you're 6 foot 2, are missing part of your ass, have "wheelchair basketball arms" and one leg that's a different size than the other, and require an inseam so long that the tiny sweatshop children who make your jeans likely use the rejects as sleeping bags. Walking into a regular store and expecting to find clothes that fit you is like walking into McDonald's and asking to see their gluten-free, dairy-free, non-GMO menu.<br />
<br />
But still. I was undaunted. I was going to look...better. Step 1: Undergarments! Thanks to weeks of internet research and staring at dozens of boobs on the Internet in the name of science, I emerged with a better-fitting bra that was a mere 10 inches smaller in the band than the ones I had been wearing. Bra fitting pro tip! If the garment slides down to your waist without the straps and/or if you can fit another person inside of it, it just might be too big.<br />
<br />
Buoyed by my initial success, I got rid of most of my summer wardrobe. Goodbye too-short T-shirts! See you later pants I've owned since "The Thong Song" was #1 on the charts! I quickly realized, however, that there was a great reason why I was holding on to all that old, ill-fitting clothing. It turns out that 99.35% of all clothing made today is stamped Not Approved For Arley.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking. But Arley! The Gap/ Banana Republic/ J. Crew make tall sizes! No. Those places make tallER sizes. They make sizes for "OMG! I am soooo tall! I can't wear my six-inch heels around my tiny hipster boyfriend!" tall. They do not make sizes for people so tall that elderly Asian ladies stop you on the street to point out your height and ask if you "make a million dollars playing basketball" or if you "have a black boyfriend' (??). Most of these stores simply slap a few inches on the bottom of the garment or the sleeve and call it a tall size, overlooking the fact that I am tall goddamn everywhere. I am not secretly a 5 foot 6 person on stilts. Someone call J. Crew and tell them to whip me up a structured dress whose waist is somewhere in the same area code as my own waist. <br />
<br />
But Arley! What about Long Tall Sally? That mecca of tall lady clothing....assuming you are a tall lady that is larger than a size 6, by which we mean a 12 and also assuming that you have a fetish for zebra print! That store that dares charge $120 for a <a href="http://us.longtallsally.com/tall/dresses/pants/spot-print-jumpsuit/black?colourSelected=05E01BLA" target="_blank">spotted jumpsuit</a> made out of material so flimsy that reviewers report that (and this is a direct quote) "i came down from my car and people started telling me my cloth was torn at the back showing my underwear. looked round myself and i found out that my front, sides and the hip areas were torn." (They do, however, have "trend inspired palazzo legs" so...you know...trade offs). <span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Long
Tall Sally's motto is basically, "Hey, I heard you're over 6 feet tall. Why not blend
into your natural environment with our wide assortment of brightly
coloured animal prints and/or headache-inducing stripes? No? Well, we
just tore this floral print off some granny's couch. Maybe we can make
you a dress from that. No? Well, have you perused our selection of jumpsuits? We have a metric fuckton of jumpsuits.
Because, according to our market research, what women over 6 feet tall
really desire is a wide selection of pleated goddamn jumpsuits with cap
sleeves."</span><br />
<br />
I will say, however, that one benefit of rebuilding your wardrobe is that you are forced to look at yourself objectively. This can be both soul-crushing and liberating. For many years, I dressed to hide various parts of my body. Cover up the big arms, the anti-ass. Conceal the small chest, the wide shoulders, the weird pointy rib situation I've got going on. You know what you get when you try to cover up your arms and shoulders and chest and waist and thighs and calves? <a href="http://immigrationinbarcelona.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/burqa.jpg" target="_blank">This</a>. Not quite the look I'm going for.<br />
<br />
I don't actually think that I have bad self-esteem or a shitty self-image. Whether it's because of the hip problems or the height, however, I've always viewed my body as an annoyance to be minimized, like that loud girl at a party you avoid talking to. The act of finding flattering clothes, however, forces you to confront the fact that some parts of your body are not The Worst Thing Ever, and that playing up these attributes will make you look better. And somehow feel better. And maybe strut a little like the sassy thing you are. And maybe, also, admit that you're not <a href="http://pretprieel.nl/pictures/futurama_amazon_woman.jpg" target="_blank">this</a> or <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtHBT9wnDhLajO8cmDuUaQ7sCW-Gq6wuwDXJeMtAaBz1sv8XypwKlid35PAaBaBbPjAsapIMRLAzxmRaAZwoOfKHgFr7gddi1ofwanI-HqYd0QZ9gjK_lppKuC2xrpAD1f_Q2yxZQrBEs/s400/big_ethel.gif" target="_blank">this</a> or <a href="http://www.sensesofcinema.com/wp-content/uploads/images/07/42/modern-amazons.jpg" target="_blank">this</a>, and that even if you were that wouldn't be the end of the world.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to give any fashion tips for How To Dress If You're 6 Foot 2 and Gimpy because a) I'm still not there yet and b) who in the world besides me needs that guide? I will say, however, that I'm working on it. Which is the same thing I say about walking better. And learning how to turn my head while riding a bike without falling over. And being just a little bit easier on myself.<br />
<br />
Because, however I look, I can take pride in the fact that my accessories are no longer so cumbersome. And my camera phone technology has improved by leaps and bounds. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoxhJd74D-HQZ1kSHh7Kqxsxr4DXcI495UL58VaI-ZnA-9xw2rv2IJScAq0l4rACtzMz1IEuqOHo9_V5D88DZtDu4UpFmsAbBjAT4SJBHNc4cq0-xEBvlZXE8egyIBQq5ag3rKwQBU1Y/s1600/BeforeAndAfter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoxhJd74D-HQZ1kSHh7Kqxsxr4DXcI495UL58VaI-ZnA-9xw2rv2IJScAq0l4rACtzMz1IEuqOHo9_V5D88DZtDu4UpFmsAbBjAT4SJBHNc4cq0-xEBvlZXE8egyIBQq5ag3rKwQBU1Y/s400/BeforeAndAfter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The great What Not To Wear Before and After</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Baby steps, yo. Gimpy little baby steps.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-1818758484721775042013-05-12T16:58:00.000-07:002013-05-12T20:05:10.507-07:00Shedding and Shredding: My Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred<br />
When I played varsity wheelchair basketball, the pre-season conditioning/team building/Stockholm-syndrome-acquiring exercise was "ramps." Both the men's and women's teams would meet at Memorial Hall Football stadium at 6:30 a.m., which at that hour would be would be so cold that your fingers would be too numb to grip the pushrims. The coach would put two trash cans on the bottom level-- they smelled like rotten soda and rust -- for everyone to vomit in. For several hours, we would push up and down the steep concrete ramps: short pushes, long pushes, power starts and stops, backwards. You'd get to the bottom, take off another layer of clothes and gulp some water before the coach shouted 'Go!' and you'd push back up past dead birds and oil stains, sometimes past the maintenance guys on golf carts, the exhaust of which would both choke you and give you a contact high. When "Living on a Prayer" came on the boombox exactly halfway through the workout, the entire team would sing along, and the dozens of voices echoing Bon Jovi off the concrete walls made the stadium sound like church.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, it was hard work. It was really hard work. (Josh Birnbaum documented it in the photo essay<a href="http://www.joshbirnbaum.com/project/uphill-battle/" target="_blank"> 'Uphill Battle.'</a> Click on the link and scroll right until you get to the 5th image). But at the top, you'd get to look for a few seconds out over Champaign-Urbana looking all stark-midwestern-pretty in the August light. Your brain would be flooded with exercise endorphins, the breeze from the windows would feel good against your salt-encrusted skin, and you would think: damn, I have done a really hard thing. During the next hard thing -- say shoveling your car out of a few feet of snow to get to practice in the dark at 5:30 in the morning -- you'd think, "Well, hell. I got through ramps. This isn't going to kill me."<br />
<br />
For the past three years since the hip replacements, I have missed that sense of accomplishment you get from pushing your body to its physical limits. Because of the two hip replacements, I can never play wheelchair basketball again: a fact that's taken me a long time to accept. Given that "Take it Easy" is just a Jackson Browne song in my world, I've been trying to find something that will give me the same feeling.<br />
<br />
First, I wanted to be a runner. Runners get to achieve personal bests and cross finish lines and show off their well-toned asses in spandex as they glide along the Vancouver Seawall. Not to mention that running is free, and, unlike using the elliptical machine, you don't have to spend hours pondering why the person next to you felt the need to eat 20 cloves of garlic as a pre-workout snack. So, despite the fact that running is a no-go for people with hip replacements, I downloaded a little training plan from the Internet and set to work. I will spare you the messy details, but let's just say that it's hard to really get a sweat on when people are stopping you every 5 minutes to ask if you're alright. If you need a visual image of me running, think of those blow-up noodle-y figures they have at car lots.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.abcinflatables.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/breezy-geezers_stena_optimised.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.abcinflatables.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/breezy-geezers_stena_optimised.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So, fine. Running was out. Next, I got a one-month Groupon to a gym that offered a bunch of fitness classes thinking I would try them all until I found one that worked. Spin classes caused my hip to swell up faster than a Real Housewife's lips. At Jazzercise, the instructor stopped the entire class to a) praise my T-shirt (which featured Omar from The Wire) and b) inform me that I "needed to be a little jazzier." (When you walk through the garden, you better watch your jazz hands). By 'jazzier,' he likely meant "try to look less like a giraffe suffering from a severe neuro-muscular disorder,' but in fairness, it's not easy to be jazzy when you're surrounded by small, pert women who have been taking this class so long that they probably wake up in the middle of the night grape-vining. Exercise classes were out.<br />
<br />
I tried biking, but the combination of "missing half your ass" and "jamming your ass repetitively* against a hard bike seat" is not a successful one, no matter how many pairs of padded shorts you wear. Plus, when I realized that the learning curve for biking outside involved the risk of getting beat-up by an aggressive Vancouver cyclist (yeah, <i>chime chime</i> to you too, wanker) or getting smoked by a semi, it became clear that cycling wasn't for me. I try to avoid activities that have a high percent chance of turning me into meat-paste.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Apologies in advance to anyone who<span style="font-size: x-small;"> found this post</span> by googling the above phrase and is now deeply disappointed.</span><br />
<br />
And so, I arrived at the wonderful world of at-home exercise DVDs. I picked up the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred (and her 'Shed and Shred,' which I plan to do next) because I watched The Biggest Loser obsessively when I was in bed for 8 months following the first hip replacement, and because years of being coached make me respond well to someone shouting at me. (In fairness, Jillian Michaels is not super shout-y in the videos).<br />
<br />
The concept is simple: The 30 Day Shred has 3 levels of punishing circuit-style 30-minute workouts and you do them for 10 days each. I figured they'd be short enough that my hip wouldn't swell up, but challenging enough that I'd feel a sense of achievement when I finished the entire plan.<br />
<br />
And I was right! Though I had to make a few modifications for exercises that I didn't have enough hip flexion to do, (looking at you, Mountain Climbers), I quickly fell in love with the program. It was great starting every day with an exercise endorphin high. I could flail around in the comfort of my own home where only my cat and boyfriend would judge me. Actually, being an expert at both 'shedding' and 'shredding,' Mika was more than happy to pitch in. During push-ups, she'd lay underneath me and lick my nose every time I dipped down to her level. It didn't even matter that, because of my ground floor apartment, people would routinely peer into my living room with perplexed expressions, trying to work out whether I was channeling spirits/ speaking in tongues/ summoning the rain gods. It also didn't matter that my clomping around made the entire apartment complex shake (Arley Stomp! Arley Smash! Arley Do Jump Squats With The Daintiness of Donkey Kong!). I was feeling good.<br />
<br />
Now, when you've had two hip replacements and your ligaments are basically held together with duct tape and you've got all of the '-itis'es, there are bound to be hiccups. My 30 Day Shred was actually more of a 33-Day Shred, because I took three days off after my knee took issue to over-compensating for my hip and decided to go rogue. In the days of yore, a sore knee would have translated in my brain into "shut up body! You're not the boss of me! Watch me push through harder until I literally cannot walk and THAT will teach you." These days, however, I've dialed the intensity down several crucial notches. I realized that it's better to do a 33-Day Shred, than a 30-Day-And-Knee-Reconstructive-Surgery Shred. When I returned after the three days, I even helped my knee get through the rest of the workout with ice packs, anti-inflammatories and anti-inflammatory cream. I'm not sure if this is what maturity feels like, or if this what old age feels like.<br />
<br />
And so, today, I got ready for the final day of the 30 Day Shred. I imagined how triumphant I would feel. Perhaps there would be an exclamation-point-filled Facebook status update. Perhaps I would cue up "Eye of the Tiger" and dance around my apartment while Mika looked on with deep scorn. My back had been stiff and achy for the past couple days, but during the warm-up I was feeling okay. During the first circuit set I was feeling okay. And then, during the one-handed clean-and-jerks of Circuit 2, I felt a sharp pain in my back. The pain shot down my leg and into my knee. There is the good pain (the kind that leads to you getting mightier) and then there's the bad pain (the kind that leads to bed rest), and this was the latter.<br />
<br />
I stopped. I paused the DVD. I limped around my apartment. The pain didn't go away. I got a glass of water. I limped some more. The pain didn't go away. Every step sent a blast of pain from my back to my hip to my knee. I turned off the video and hit the showers, feeling more disappointed than I'd been in years, feeling like I'd fallen on my face a few steps from the finish line. I mean, there is no medal for finishing the 30 Day Shred, but I'd wanted to kick its ass. I wanted to do the thing I had set out to do. I wanted a moment like I'd had on the ramps, where I'd done a hard thing that would propel me to accomplish more hard things (like, say, finishing the novel I've been working on).<br />
<br />
Now that a few hours have passed and I am sitting here with an icepack on my back, however, I am trying to see my almost-30 Day Shred differently. Before the hip replacement, I routinely pushed my body further than I should have. I got injured or sick, played through, got more injured, played through, got frustrated because I couldn't understand why things weren't improving, played through, blamed myself for not trying hard enough, played through. I bought into all those Nike commercials about pain being weakness leaving the body. But sometimes pain is not weakness leaving the body. Sometimes pain is just damage happening. Knowing the difference is not the kind of slogan that looks good on a T-shirt, but it does prevent you from having further hip replacements.<br />
<br />
And so I will declare my 30 Day Shred to be a qualified success. I did have to modify it. I did take more than 30 days to do it. I did stop with 11 and a half minutes left to go in the final damn workout, turn off the DVD and walk away. But I also achieved more leg strength than I've ever had. I did both walking and traveling push-ups from my toes. I did lose an inch around every part of my body and about 6 pounds overall. And, if I do say so myself, my ass is looking damn impressive...ish. <br />
<br />
I guess that's the take-away message for those trying to work out with arthritis, or post hip-replacement. You push until you feel the wrong kind of pain, you take a step back to recover, and then you push on. Your path to success looks like stairs, not like a ramp. You do small difficult things over and over again until they are no longer difficult. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-19435970144860341462012-09-01T19:59:00.003-07:002012-09-02T02:28:55.941-07:00In Defense of Frankie Boyle: Why You Should Make Fun of the Paralympics<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"Courier New";
panose-1:2 7 3 9 2 2 5 2 4 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Wingdings;
panose-1:5 2 1 2 1 8 4 8 7 8;
mso-font-charset:2;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:0 0 65536 0 -2147483648 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0cm;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraph, li.MsoListParagraph, div.MsoListParagraph
{margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:36.0pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:0cm;
margin-left:36.0pt;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:0cm;
margin-left:36.0pt;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:36.0pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
@page Section1
{size:612.0pt 792.0pt;
margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt;
mso-header-margin:35.4pt;
mso-footer-margin:35.4pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
/* List Definitions */
@list l0
{mso-list-id:727385260;
mso-list-type:hybrid;
mso-list-template-ids:-1205552346 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693 67698689 67698691 67698693;}
@list l0:level1
{mso-level-number-format:bullet;
mso-level-text:;
mso-level-tab-stop:none;
mso-level-number-position:left;
text-indent:-18.0pt;
font-family:Symbol;}
@list l1
{mso-list-id:1654872933;
mso-list-type:hybrid;
mso-list-template-ids:-1185743672 67698703 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715;}
@list l1:level1
{mso-level-tab-stop:none;
mso-level-number-position:left;
text-indent:-18.0pt;}
ol
{margin-bottom:0cm;}
ul
{margin-bottom:0cm;}
-->
</style>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I developed a sense of humour one day in October of 1996. This feat was achieved thanks to the following factors.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>I was 13.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>I was nearly 6 feet tall.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>I was in a bright blue half body cast that
forced my legs apart at 45 degree angles.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>To achieve this angle, a wooden hockey stick had
been casted between my legs, necessitating snaps in my underwear like the kind
used in baby onesies.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>I most often dressed in long peasant skirts (to
avoid the need for snaps) topped with a series of T-shirts that
proclaimed me to be a “Big Dog.” (The “Big Dog” shirts had no medical function,
though they probably could have been used as a diagnostic tool for depression).</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>I had just started high school, and getting my
wheelchair to class required the use lifts installed over the stairs. These
lifts emitted warning chimes similar to those of an ice cream truck, which routinely caused stoner boys to sneak from their classrooms expecting a Fudgesicle,
then look at me with an expression of deep, soul-crushing disappointment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On that day, I was late for class and the lift was moving at
a glacial speed down the stairway, chiming so loud that three teachers came out
to see what the fuss was about. I was frustrated and embarrassed. I was dressed
like a lady hobo. I had just started high school and would have to see all these
people for 4 more years. There were snaps up my underwear. My cast itched and
smelled. And suddenly, I looked down at the piece of wood forcing my legs apart
and thought, “Oh my God. Even though it is impossible for me to close my legs,
no one even wants to rape me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a truly awful thing to think, but I started to laugh. My whole perspective on my body had changed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since then, I have told many jokes about my disabled body,
and very few of them have been kind. I make fun of the fact that I walk like a
crack addict, or a zombie. When I was single, I often joked that since sex is one of the few things
that alleviates my chronic pain, I should register myself as a non-profit
organization so that I can issue tax receipts to men who fuck me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been chided by (able-bodied)
people for denigrating myself, but I see it differently: when you can make fun
of something, it loses its power over you. I know for a fact that if I hadn't developed the capability to tell off-colour jokes about myself, I would not have survived. I would have wasted away into a ball of seething frustration and ironic T-shirts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days ago, there was a furor over British comedian Frankie Boyle telling some Paralympic jokes on Twitter. (Here's an article on the <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/9510984/Frankie-Boyle-facing-Channel-4-axe-over-Paralympic-comments.html" target="_blank">controversy</a>). I thought they were funny, but then
again I also thought it was hilarious when I posted a video of wheelchair rugby
heavy hits and someone commented that the hardest hit was the car crash most of
them were in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
C4 has had some really interesting discussions on whether you can laugh at the Paralympics. I think you can -- and you should -- but that there are two questions every comic should ask him/herself when doing so.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Is the joke funny? To me, that’s
the standard on which any joke’s success should be judged. Does it have that
element of surprise, of originality, of intelligence? The offensive Paralympic jokes I've seen have failed not because of their subject matter, but because they just weren't very good. If you're going to take on a taboo subject, you better bring your A game.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Does the joke come from a place of respect or at least understanding? It’s very easy to
tell when a comedian has bothered to understand and respect the
target of his joke, or whether he is accidentally revealing prejudices. (Note that showing respect doesn't equate to being nice, but it does mean having a purpose other than petty mockery or perpetuating some shitty stereotype). That’s why people who do the “Chinaman” voice or the “person
with a mental disability” voice are nearly uniformily unfunny. It’s also why
Louis C.K. can tell a joke about sexual assault, but your rapey Uncle Steve
can’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, I would go so far as to say that jokes are the
ultimate form of respect. When you put disability up on a pedestal and treat it as Serious Business, it becomes
the elephant in the room. People with disabilities are cast as some “other” who
must be treated differently than “normal” people. If Paralympic athletes want
to be respected as the elite athletes they are, then they need to accept
everything that comes along with it. David Beckham lives with people joking
about his Mickey Mouse voice or calling him out if he has a bad game, and so should every
Paralympian. (Boyle tweeted something similar to this, saying it was his job to make fun of the Paralympics just like it was his job to make fun of the Olympics, and I agree).<br />
<br />
The narrative of a Paralympian as a heroic source of inspiration is boring. If journalists and fans are only allowed to talk about the Paralympics in one way -- if only one type of conversation is deemed politically correct -- then we will never get the well-rounded, nuanced coverage that the Paralympic movement needs. To get this nuanced coverage, we have to test (and keep testing) to see where the line is.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When done well, humour can be a force for change because it forces people to confront prejudices they didn't know they had. The best
humour challenges the status quo and upsets the balance of power (see: joker
characters in Shakespeare). Frankie Boyle is no Shakespeare, but I would pick someone telling a joke about "Taliban-inspired" Paralympic performances over someone approaching me on the street to praise me for my
courage/inspiration/whatever any day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Brits are known for their great sense of humour, and I
hope it’s on full display at the London 2012 Paralympics. In that spirit, I will be judging the success of these Paralympics based on whether there is a nod to the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch in the Closing Ceremonies.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-60070899015030950572012-05-21T12:39:00.002-07:002012-05-21T21:35:49.146-07:00The London 2012 Paralympics: The Best Show You'll Never See<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:0cm;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
a:link, span.MsoHyperlink
{mso-style-noshow:yes;
color:blue;
text-decoration:underline;
text-underline:single;}
a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed
{mso-style-noshow:yes;
color:purple;
text-decoration:underline;
text-underline:single;}
p.MsoListParagraph, li.MsoListParagraph, div.MsoListParagraph
{margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:36.0pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:0cm;
margin-left:36.0pt;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:0cm;
margin-left:36.0pt;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
p.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, li.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast, div.MsoListParagraphCxSpLast
{mso-style-type:export-only;
margin-top:0cm;
margin-right:0cm;
margin-bottom:10.0pt;
margin-left:36.0pt;
mso-add-space:auto;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
span.usernamejs-action-profile-name
{mso-style-name:"username js-action-profile-name";}
@page Section1
{size:612.0pt 792.0pt;
margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt;
mso-header-margin:35.4pt;
mso-footer-margin:35.4pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
/* List Definitions */
@list l0
{mso-list-id:973028881;
mso-list-type:hybrid;
mso-list-template-ids:-903054196 67698705 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715;}
@list l0:level1
{mso-level-text:"%1\)";
mso-level-tab-stop:none;
mso-level-number-position:left;
text-indent:-18.0pt;}
ol
{margin-bottom:0cm;}
ul
{margin-bottom:0cm;}
-->
</style>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In 2004, I competed in the Athens Paralympics in wheelchair
basketball. I was not a starter. I played mostly in the round robins and the
highlight of my entire Paralympic experience was scoring 7 points in the first
quarter against Mexico, which landed me very briefly on the high scorer board.
My mom has a photo of this high-scorer board. Along with that photo, she also
got bruises up the backs of her legs from tensely pressing her
calves against the seat, and a sore throat from cheering that took weeks to
clear up. A few days later, my family watched me stand on a podium and receive
a bronze medal: an experience that they never could have even dreamed of during
the early years of hospital stays, half-body casts and surgeries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The game I was in would never have been shown on TV and at
the time webcasting didn’t exist, but my parents were able to share this
moment because they had the means to travel from Canada to Greece. Thousands of
parents, friends and supporters of the athletes who will compete in the London
2012 Paralympic Games this summer, however, do not. Those who cannot afford to
visit an expensive city like London are banking on the fact that the
Paralympics will be webcast. The
good news is that they will: the
U.K. Channel C4 will be webcasting many of the events with a professional feed
complete with colour commentators. Here, however, is the bad news: unless you
live in the U.K., you will never get to see it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you ask C4 why they have restricted the feed to a U.K.
audience, they will tell you that they don’t want to interfere with other
countries’ television broadcasting rights. (That sound you hear is thousands of
Paralympians snickering at once). The channel with the broadcasting rights in
your country will provide coverage, they say. This is all well and good if you
live in a sport-mad country like Australia, but less good if you live in
Canada, where CTV (the channel with the Olympic and Paralympic broadcasting
rights) had to be publicly shamed into airing the Vancouver 2010 Paralympics’
Opening Ceremony, even though it took place in their own country. And it’s even
less good if you live in, say, India or Africa. Or if you play a sport that is not one of the Paralympic marquee sports like wheelchair basketball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given that most countries will not be offering
up-to-the-minute Paralympic coverage, and given that a webcast is an entirely
different medium than television and its picture quality and reliability do not
compete with television, the true reason the Paralympics are not being webcast
worldwide is a financial one. C4 is so protective of its market that it does not
even release made-for-web videos to a non-U.K. audience. It does not see an incentive to work with
other broadcasters to ensure that the Paralympic Games can be seen. But there
are some very compelling reasons why they should. Here’s why.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Because the people
who need to see Paralympic sports are the ones with the least access to it.</b>
It is not an exaggeration to say that involvement in wheelchair sports (or any Paralympic sport) saves
lives. People who play wheelchair sports at any level have fewer hospital
stays, fewer secondary complications, less depression, more independence and
greater employment. But it’s more than that. During the Paralympics, you will
hear over and over again how an athlete’s involvement in his or her sport was
the number one factor in their adjusting to life after acquiring a disability.
When you hear Paralympians say that they would not be here if not for sport,
this is not an exaggeration in the least. There are thousands of athletes at a
recreational level who could tell you the same story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These athletes could also tell you that they initially
resisted becoming involved in wheelchair sports because they did not think it
would be competitive. And then, one day, they came out to a wheelchair basketball practice and saw someone sink a long three-pointer, or saw a head-on collision at a wheelchair rugby game, and the spark was lit.
Today, thanks to webcasting technology, that spark can be lit at 3 am in front
of a computer screen. It can be lit in a developing nation where there is not
yet a single sports wheelchair. (During the webcast of the 2010 World
Wheelchair Rugby Championships, 1 in 6 viewers were from countries that did not
have a wheelchair rugby team). Once every four years, people with disabilities
from around the world have a chance to see wheelchair sport played at its very
best and so see what they might also be capable of. Without a webcast, many
will never get this chance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Because the
Paralympics deserve to be seen.</b> When parasports are shown on TV or reported
about in newspapers, if they are shown at all, they are generally framed by
able-bodied journalists who are not experts. Lacking expertise in the
technicalities of the game, the journalist must resort to the old clichés about
how inspirational the athletes are, about how much they’ve overcome. It’s not
the journalist’s fault that they are not equipped to interpret wheelchair
sports, but the end result is that the sport never gets a chance to speak for
itself. Nor is it the fault of
television executives that there is not the market to put a full wheelchair
basketball gold medal game on during a time when people would conceivably watch
it. Thanks to the webcast, however, people have a chance to see a full game
presented the way it is. The game is not a human-interest story, but a fully
realized sport with its own intricacies, strategies and feats of athleticism. The
viewer can make up his or her own mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve seen over and over that when people see wheelchair
sports, they fall in love with them. The professional wheelchair basketball
league in Europe plays to packed crowds. The 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby
Championships made $40,000 in ticket sales. But a barrier exists in wheelchair
sports that able-bodied sports don’t face, which is that before you can get
someone to watch a game, you must get them past the stereotypes they hold about
people with disabilities. A highlight package on the local news will not
overcome this barrier, but a webcast can.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Because the
Paralympic community deserves more.</b> I work for a wheelchair rugby team and
that sport has some of the most dedicated fans around. At every tournament, friends and families and volunteering, fundraising and cheering in the stands. It makes sense. Say that you are a mother who nearly lost a son in a
car accident, who was told by a doctor that he had become a quadriplegic, who
supported him as he re-learned basic life skills, who watched him transform
from someone barely able to sit up in bed to someone representing his country
on a world stage. Imagine you have seen all that and you don’t have the money
to travel to London. Imagine that someone tells you that you will not be able
to see your son competing at his most proud sport moment because some television channel might kind of sort of maybe possibly want to do a 15-minute highlight
package two weeks after the Paralympics are over. You would find that answer
unacceptable, and so do I.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now say that you are a Paralympic athlete. You moved
thousands of miles away to train with the best coaches. You got up at 5:30 a.m.
for years. You routinely push your body so hard that you throw up. You have
been to 8 countries in the past year just to qualify. And now say someone tells
you that, though the technology exists, your friends and family will not be
able to see you represent your country on the world stage. You would find that
answer unacceptable, and so do I.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Webcasting is a developing technology and it raises many
important questions about broadcasting rights. These must be discussed. But it
also raises new solutions, and none of these solutions involve apathy. C4 could
sell its webfeed to other broadcasting companies. It could sell individual events
30 minutes after the match is over in iTunes. A major sponsor could step in to
cover the cost of the bandwidth and ensure that Paralympic sports can be seen
worldwide. From a purely financial standpoint, it’s in C4’s best interest to
get this right. It seems better to make the webcast available worldwide and
profit off the advertising, than to have Paralympic fans access the
webcast via other means.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Internet is a global medium and the Paralympics are a
global movement. Both are evolving rapidly and there are many kinks to work out
along the way. But if the Paralympics are about anything, they’re about
refusing to accept the easy answer, about proving someone wrong when they tell
you it can’t be done or it’s not possible. The London 2012 Paralympics deserves
to be seen, and every athlete, supporter and ever stranger should be loud
enough to demand it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And here’s how.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
1)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>Ask C4 Paralympics to make the webcast for the
London 2012 Paralympics viewable to people in every country. You can reach them
on Twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/C4Paralympics"><span class="usernamejs-action-profile-name"><s><span style="color: blue;">@</span></s></span><span class="usernamejs-action-profile-name"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">C4Paralympics</span></b></span></a>), on Facebook (<a href="https://www.facebook.com/C4Paralympics">https://www.facebook.com/C4Paralympics</a>)
or via their website (<a href="http://www.channel4.com/4viewers/contact-us">http://www.channel4.com/4viewers/contact-us</a>)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
2)<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";">
</span>If C4 will not show Paralympic sport outside its market, then the
broadcaster with the official broadcasting rights in each country must do so. In
Canada, this is held by CTV. Contact them on Twitter (@CtvOlympics), Facebook
(Facebook.com/ctvolympics), or via their website (<a href="http://www.ctvolympics.ca/contactus.html">http://www.ctvolympics.ca/contactus.html</a>)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are 100
days to the Paralympics. Let's make those 100 days count. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com118tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-41396229515470700162011-12-13T23:13:00.000-08:002011-12-13T23:16:21.050-08:00How Qantas Saved ChristmasI have a strange life. I live in one of those perpetual tornadoes of weirdness where cats need hip replacements and ass muscles fall off and occasionally you need to be rescued on a Greek island by wheelchair rugby players or tell a masseuse in Turkey that, no, you don't want that kind of massage. This is not something I complain about, since I also have the kind of life where crappy things tend to work themselves out, usually as a result of there being good people in the world.<br />
<br />
Case in point: this morning, I wrote a blog post about how I wasn't able to go to Australia to visit some friends because I failed to recognize that the fine print on my itinerary actually said that my credit card had been declined. (You can read the original post <a href="http://youngandhip.blogspot.com/2011/12/how-qantas-stole-christmas.html">here</a>). Just when I thought my Christmas Down Under was doomed to become a Christmas Sulking On the Couch and Overindulging in Homemade Boozy Chai Lattes, a Christmas miracle happened. Or a Twitter miracle.<br />
<br />
I sent my original blog post to the Qantas customer service people via Twitter and they actually responded! Those of you who have heard the story of The Time I Went to France and Air Canada's Baggage Wankers Ripped a Hole in My Luggage and Despite Years of Trying I Never Got Compensated Because I Didn't Save the Receipt For A Four-Year-Old Bag (it's not a very exciting story, truth be told), will understand why I didn't expect an airline to really bother. After all, it was partially my faut; I should have read the fine print.<br />
<br />
But Qantas responded, and within a few hours I had my trip rebooked at the same price I intended to pay for the original ticket, plus a complimentary pass to the Qantas lounge on my way back for my trouble. I'll be heading to Australia on the 15th and will arrive on the 17th. When I got off the phone with the Qantas people and discovered that I would indeed be able to go to Australia, it was like that moment in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas where the Grinch has a change of heart and throws all the presents down to the town below. (And what happened next? Well in Vancouver they say/ That the Arley's faith in customer service/ grew 4 sizes that day. Also: her butt grew several sizes in anticipation of all the Tim Tam's she's about to eat).<br />
<br />
So thank you to Qantas customer service, and thank you to everyone who tweeted/ Facebooked their outrage on my behalf. While it will be strange to not spend Christmas with my family, I'm excited to be able to spend time with some truly awesome friends and explore Australia. Hopefully I will have some adventures worth blogging about! Thanks Qantas!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-11741922994543456702011-12-13T15:39:00.000-08:002011-12-13T23:18:02.773-08:00How the Qantas Stole ChristmasUpdate: Well, yay. Qantas rectified the situation. Check out the updated blog post <a href="http://here./">here.</a><br />
<br />
One of the great things about having had a Paralympic wheelchair basketball career is that you have friends all over the world and a place to stay in nearly every country. One of the downsides, however, is that once you're no longer traveling around the world racking up Airmiles points and actually having one of those "real job" things, getting to see some of these friends is tough.<br />
<br />
This year, I had planned to remedy that by spending Christmas and New Years with my friends in Australia, most of whom are on the Australian women's wheelchair basketball national team and too busy training for London 2012 to come visit me on this side of the world. I've actually never been to Australia, since the two times I was supposed to go for a basketball tournament I ended up getting sick or injured, so I was excited to finally experience the Land Down Under. What could be better than reconnecting with friends while soaking up enough vitamin D to get me through the rest of Vancouver's grey season?<br />
<br />
Because of the last-minute-ness of my book tour, I wasn't able to confirm my travel dates until two weeks before my flight date, so the ticket price to Melbourne was at the top of my price range. I chose, however, to book through Qantas airline's website, since I was assured by friends that it was the most reliable site and Qantas offered the best service of any airline that flies to Australia. I submitted my credit card information and was directed to a screen saying that my flight had successfully been booked. Moments later, an itinerary arrived in my inbox. This itinerary had a booking number and reference number and the word 'confirmed' was written by every flight. Mission accomplished, right? Wrong.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I arrived at the airport packed and ready to go. In anticipation of having to spend some extra time at the Homeland Security Love Fest thanks to the artificial hip, I arrived at the airport 2.5 hours in advance, thinking this would be ample time to catch my flight from Vancouver to L.A., which connected to my flight to Melbourne. Upon checking in, however, I received a shock: I had no ticket.<br />
<br />
That itinerary that Qantas sent me? Well, let's take a closer look.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNMbCc9Zu9XHDvVUUaoT0mVgE6DOlddWhmDTjxNUJLBK3IFyXUkpg-za9ebOAM7v6GbAmlj0O2qlH-sFzJDXuioqzmG5ofwvcsaWxTNX7V9FMfhBzDkkXppUEvOCcq32RY6Yx-JLhsbQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.39.59+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCNMbCc9Zu9XHDvVUUaoT0mVgE6DOlddWhmDTjxNUJLBK3IFyXUkpg-za9ebOAM7v6GbAmlj0O2qlH-sFzJDXuioqzmG5ofwvcsaWxTNX7V9FMfhBzDkkXppUEvOCcq32RY6Yx-JLhsbQ/s400/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.39.59+PM.png" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Yup...this all looks solid. Booking number. Reference number. And you'd think that if something was important, they'd put it in those nice, bright blue letters. Right? Let's read on!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47evHRc8O2boFuTfh1YRIUJmfyDBHmjtM-5ye7d8D_Mr0hjDPyGmZ_tkB4ybKBT8wWqqinJhJwGMI61nohLoT5GrJz3sWKbyvVQnAmF9p5zZKnxBFFU2LtqeBFMR_IhJVDft5JOxYHhQ/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.40.23+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47evHRc8O2boFuTfh1YRIUJmfyDBHmjtM-5ye7d8D_Mr0hjDPyGmZ_tkB4ybKBT8wWqqinJhJwGMI61nohLoT5GrJz3sWKbyvVQnAmF9p5zZKnxBFFU2LtqeBFMR_IhJVDft5JOxYHhQ/s400/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.40.23+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Confirmed! Confirmed is a good word! Scroll, scroll, scroll. Yup, everything looks solid! This is the point where I thought, "Okay, all looks well. Back to book touring." Mistake! Let's read on.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrW6_xpmPaMzvAJiTS4lH5BDOYvKw2UdMk6wowwwKl19h3-PerOOjjGsozkcfLQP8IdM5ymunbtATT61ohMYcQAkauUhq0s7mRDVajvw1I4qA5Iqxfz8V6K34JpKZ6sapJ2lHDOskk5ME/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.40.38+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrW6_xpmPaMzvAJiTS4lH5BDOYvKw2UdMk6wowwwKl19h3-PerOOjjGsozkcfLQP8IdM5ymunbtATT61ohMYcQAkauUhq0s7mRDVajvw1I4qA5Iqxfz8V6K34JpKZ6sapJ2lHDOskk5ME/s400/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.40.38+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
That's right, ladies and gentlemen. The minor detail that <b>I HAVE NO TICKET</b> was buried in the middle of the email in the same tiny capslocked letters that detailed the enhanced screening measures requiring me to stow my aerosols and gels in a transparent resealable 1 litre plastic bag. But hey, at least they used 10 whole asterisks. And we all know that asterisks in 10 pt. font mean business.<br />
<br />
The email continues on for another page in the same shout-y capslocks, before ending with this cheerful note:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PQlOM9RGXZAs31F4oxhPMZ0vgpOwm_C3zk5l5jfcfta57SUYqN9zR9NlNmNC-4bGSCxjb1mnioTyHienuPMzo0m7E_yaTfgZe3a19RiRU5S55dsSiUf1xLnnjPqwnl1ooZWxxB0r7pM/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.41.26+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="45" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PQlOM9RGXZAs31F4oxhPMZ0vgpOwm_C3zk5l5jfcfta57SUYqN9zR9NlNmNC-4bGSCxjb1mnioTyHienuPMzo0m7E_yaTfgZe3a19RiRU5S55dsSiUf1xLnnjPqwnl1ooZWxxB0r7pM/s400/Screen+shot+2011-12-13+at+2.41.26+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
"We wish you a pleasant journey" is apparently code for "Can't wait to see the look on your face when you get to the airport and realize that you have no ticket, sucka!"<br />
<br />
Well, damn. No ticket. Now, I am a seasoned traveler. I have been all over the world for basketball and routinely fly for work. If I could get myself out of being chased by wild dogs at 3 am at the dock of a Greek island waiting for my stolen luggage to appear on a barge, I could remedy this situation.<br />
<br />
I did not panic. I did not shout. I did not melt down. Instead, I called Qantas. We tried the credit card again. No dice. The nice Qantas rep suggested that I contact Mastercard. After 40 minutes on hold and a few dropped calls, I finally got through to Mastercard. Though my limit was well over the cost of the flight, I got my limit increased just to be safe. The representative at Mastercard suggested that Qantas could call them directly to remedy the situation, but that the payment should go through.<br />
<br />
Time was ticking. I had only 45 minutes until my flight to L.A. I phoned Qantas again, waited on hold, but by the time that I got through to anyone and explained my problem, it was too late. The representative informed me that they could only process emergency payments in American funds, not Canadian funds, and would have to transfer me to another booking agent...and by that time it would be too late.<br />
<br />
I asked if they could put me on the same flight on a different day, since Qantas did such a terrible job of informing me about the declined credit card. The agent said I should have read the fine print and it wasn't Qantas' fault. I asked if there was anything -- ANYTHING -- I could do. Nothing short of starting from scratch. And then she hung up. (Merry Christmas to you too, frosty Qantas lady).<br />
<br />
Still not totally discouraged, I headed home to see if I could snag a cheap fare, but sadly the prices had gone up to over $3500, way, way beyond my budget. And even when I did find a single fare on a non-Qantas airline that was not ridiculously expensive, it turned out that Mastercard had put a block on my credit card. WHY? Because I tried to make a large purchase after increasing my credit limit. Face meet palm.<br />
<br />
Between the Mastercard shenanigans and Qantas' refusal to offer more than the basic level of assistance, I will not be traveling to Australia this Christmas. I will not be sitting on the beach with friends for New Years. I will not be kayaking, snorkling, hiking or any of the other fun things I'd planned. I will not be taking a much-needed break from work. Instead, I'm spending this Christmas season getting caught up on work. And now, Qantas, I'm mad.<br />
<br />
Because here's the thing. Yeah, I should have read the fine print. But crucial information such as the fact that my credit card was declined should not have been in the fine print to begin with. It should have been in a separate email. Or at the top of the itinerary in large, bold letters. Or anywhere but the middle of an email that appeared to be a flight confirmation, surrounded by a couple of asterisks and a few pages of information about security procedures. Had I discovered this problem quickly, I could have easily remedied the situation and would right now be shaking off the jetlag with an ice cold beer and a bit of sunshine. <br />
<br />
So Qantas, you may have lost a customer, but I've lost my one chance for a vacation this year and that makes me terribly, terribly sad. I hope you'll find some way to remedy this situation, or prevent from happening to anyone else. In the meantime, I will be sending this blog post to all my many Paralympic athlete friends around the world in the hopes that they do not make the same mistake as I did. I hope they will bear that in mind when choosing an airline.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-23852802056054562802011-12-07T23:49:00.001-08:002011-12-08T01:06:41.420-08:00Are the Paralympics Patronizing?<br />
Before my hip replacement, I was a Paralympic athlete in wheelchair basketball. I won 2 World Championship gold medals (2002 and 2006) and won bronze at the 2004 Paralympics in Athens. Today, the former athlete (and current disability studies enthusiast) in me was intrigued by a blog post entitled "Are the Paralympics Patronizing?" The article (here: http://blogs.channel4.com/paralympics/2011/12/07/are-the-paralympics-patronising/) reflects on a survey that found that less than a quarter of people with disabilities are excited about the Paralympics. This, the blogger says, "questions the core purpose of Paralympic sport."<br />
<br />
I'm not so sure.<br />
<br />
First, it's tough to make the argument that the Paralympics themselves are patronizing. Separating athletes out based on biological categories has been around since the advent of sports. Boxers and wrestlers have weight classes. Women have their own teams. There are championships for athletes of various ages from junior up to masters. No one is arguing that some 50 kg wrestler should hop in the ring with a 80kg wrestler. Why? Because sport is better when people compete against their equals. <br />
<br />
One of our fundamental beliefs in sport is that champions are not born fully formed, but are created out of hard work and dedication. Separating athletes into fair categories allows such a principle to be carried out. If sports like boxing or wrestling did not have weight classes, the athlete who happened to be born with the most appropriate body type would overpower athletes who trained harder, were smarter or more skilled. Allowing like to compete against like shows us true excellence, since the athlete who has done the most to maximize his or her natural gifts is the winner.<br />
<br />
For this reason, the Paralympics as an event cannot be patronizing. What can be patronizing, however, is the way the Paralympics are represented in popular culture. Just as the lack of popularity of women's sport is less a reflection on women's sport and more a reflection on our culture's beliefs about women, the Paralympic movement reveals society's attitude towards people with disabilities. This attitude is often highly patronizing.<br />
<br />
One of those patronizing attitudes is the notion that the "core purpose of Paralympic sport" is to inspire other people with disabilities. Athletes compete in the Paralympics to win. It is an elite sporting event and a wheelchair is just another piece of sporting equipment that allows athletes to achieve this level of excellence. When I competed, I did not get up at 5:30 every morning so that some 50-year-old accountant with polio could learn to follow his dreams. I got up at 5:30 every morning to win a gold medal. Athletes able-bodied and otherwise are notoriously bad at being role models (see: Michael Phelps) because their #1 goal isn't to inspire. Their goal is to win. <br />
<br />
The problem is that when the "inspirational" narrative that exists in able-bodied sports gets applied to the Paralympics, it's filtered through a thick lens of ableism. Michael Phelps is inspirational because he won roughly 8 million gold medals. A Paralympic athlete, however, is inspirational because she overcame a disability (bonus points if this disability was acquired in a tragic manner) and is exhibiting hope and courage and rainbows and butterflies by just competing at all. To reduce any sport to a Hallmark made-for-TV movie is to cheapen it and the word "inspirational" as applied to Paralympic athletes has been degraded to the point that it's a dirty word.<br />
<br />
This, I suspect, is what the bulk of people with disabilities are reacting to when they profess to be not excited about the Paralympics. Even the question is filtered through a bias. Why should one person with a disability be expected to feel a rah-rah sense of allegiance to someone else with a disability, be they Paralympian or otherwise? Why should a person who has no interest in sports be interested in the Paralympics just because he or she has a spinal cord injury or a missing limb? I imagine that by the time the Paralympics arrive, there will be a lot of non-sporty people with disabilities in Britain sick of being asked by well-meaning people on buses or in shops whether they're excited that The Disabled are being put on TV thanks to the Paralympics, in much the same way that conservative African-Americans must have gotten sick of well-meaning white people asking them if they're excited about the election of Barack Obama.<br />
<br />
Personally, I don't care whether only 22% of people with disabilities are excited about the Paralympics. I care that wheelchair sports are represented in a way that allows both able-bodied and disabled people alike to make up their own minds. When Paralympic sports are treated like the sports they are, we see time and again that people who love sports "get" them. A professional wheelchair basketball league is thriving in Europe not because people want to show their kids that people with disabilities can accomplish great things, but because wheelchair basketball is exciting, fast-paced and fun to watch. When a wheelchair is viewed as a piece of sporting equipment, all that awareness and advocacy and empathy stuff takes care of itself.<br />
<br />
My hope is that in London 2012, the "I word" takes a backseat to an intelligent, honest analysis of Paralympic sports. The good news it that it's starting to happen, as more and more journalists (Gary Kingston, for example) and bloggers represent Paralympic sports for what they are. This may mean criticizing a team or athlete for underperforming, or it may mean admitting that some Paralympic sports (like some Olympic sports) are not as exciting as others. Without this honesty, however, the Paralympics become nothing more than an extended human interest story. And if that's the case, there will be a lot more people with disabilities changing the channel.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-44168077728754685762011-09-01T17:37:00.000-07:002011-09-01T17:58:50.350-07:00Getting Back On the Bike <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/arley_mc/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0cm; margin-right:0cm; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">This May, I rode a bike for the first time in 17 years.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">You might say to me, “Wow, riding a bicycle. Colour me impressed. It’s not like my four-year-old niece goes off-road extreme mountain biking and punches cougars in the face when she encounters them out in the wilderness or my 80-year-old grandma is training for her 18<sup>th</sup> triathlon and built her own bike out of the bamboo she cut down herself during her trip to Nepal or anything. Did you bust out your fanny pack for your epic trip around the Seawall?” </p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Okay, yes, I realize that I am living in the epicenter of the Active Westcoast Lifestyle and everyone and their dog rides a bike here. This, however, is a big deal to me because it’s literally the only thing I can do post-hip-replacement that I couldn’t do before. (Well, I have found a few extra uses besides bike riding for my newfound ability to straddle, but let’s not go into that).<span style=""> </span></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I resisted posting about this for several months because the person who taught me how the ride a bike is someone I was casually dating at the time. It’s a long-standing opinion of mine that blogging about an ex (even a casual, short-term-relationship type ex) is a one-way ticket to AwkwardTown with stops along the way at AiringYourDirtyLaundryInAWayThatWillCauseYouShameVille and TheMinuteYouMentionDatingCreepersOnTheInternetAreImaginingYouFucking-opolis. </p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I’ve decided to blog about learning how to ride a bike, however, because so much of Young and Hip has chronicled my disappointment with my hip replacement. I often get emails asking me if I regret it, and I worry that I am talking people out of a life-altering surgery. But even though I’m over a year post-hip-replacement (and two years since the first one), my hip still swells up like the ass of a baboon in heat if I try to do such extreme sports as…deep water aerobics. Or walking down the street. Or sitting in a chair for longer than 20 minutes. I still walk with a cane. I can never play wheelchair basketball again. If I work out for more than a couple of days a week, I’m in constant pain. Over the past year, I’ve honestly struggled with the knowledge that this is as good as my hip will ever get.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">But back to the bicycling. I met D. on an online dating site. I was immediately comfortable around him, which is astounding because usually on dates I talk like a crack-addicted LOLcat (“O HAI!!”) and knock things over with my elaborate hand gestures. A few weeks after we met, I mentioned that I wanted to learn how to ride a bike. I joked about getting adult training wheels so I wouldn’t fall and bring about Total Hip Replacement 3: Rise of the Prosthetic Fractures. D offered to teach me. </p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I assumed that he meant that we would rent a bike by the seawall and he would attempt to catch me if I looked to be veering towards certain death. But D. surprised me by researching how to safely teach an adult how to ride a bicycle. Thanks to a few websites and several Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies becoming confident cyclists, he came up with a plan. (Is it a bad sign that one of the nicer things a man has ever done for me involved Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies?)</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">And so, on one of those rare Spring days when it’s sunny in Vancouver and your Seasonal Affective Disorder calls in sick, D and I went to Stanley Park armed only with the wisdom of the internet. D’s method involved me coasting down a grassy hill first with my feet touching the ground to get a feel for the movement, then again with my feet up, then finally while pedaling. And it was….really easy. Though the writer in me died a little, I had to admit that the cliché is true: you really never forget.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">This was a surprise because when I tried to ride a bike several years before the hip replacement, I couldn’t get my left leg on the pedals, it nearly got caught in the chain and A. (who was holding on to both me and the bike) and I ran into a tree. This time, however, I took off riding up a hill. Wobbly, yes. Slow, absolutely. Graceful, sure as hell not. I, however, felt like Lance Fucking Armstrong winning the Tour De Fuck You Hip Replacement Because That Shit Just Happened.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">D. and I took a break for lunch and then he rented a bike and we rode together around the Seawall. Because of my lack of speed and the fact that I was wobbling more than Lindsey Lohan after a rough night, cyclists kept chiming at me. At first, I mistook this for a friendly salute, as if they were saying, “Greetings and salutations fellow cycling enthusiast! May your journey be safe and free of ass-chafing!”, but D. informed me that ringing your bell is actually cyclist speak for “fuck you.” (Well <i style="">chime chime</i> to you too, Vancouver bike commuters).</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Soon, however, I was coasting down hills, picking up speed and wondering how long it had been since I’d gone fast. That’s the one thing I miss about sport, and it’s something that elliptical machines can’t replace: just going balls out fast. I will spare you any clichés of feeling free – nothing’s free in Vancouver, let’s be honest – but for the first time my long recovery felt over. I was ‘better.’ Sure, it wasn’t the better I expected or wanted, but even though my hip was swollen and my back was sore and my anti-ass was like “fuck off right here and now,” it seemed like a better I could live with.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I looked at D., who was flushed from pedaling and who had gone to all this effort to teach me how to do something he didn’t even enjoy, and at Stanley Park, which was being all picture-post-cardy, and I thought: Best. Date. Ever. And that feeling continued for several more weeks….until it didn’t. And then it was over. <span style=""> </span>There’s a Gloria Steinem joke here somewhere.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">After the breakup, I’ll admit that I spent a day or two sulkily listening to “Blood on the Tracks,” but it doesn’t take long to get over a six-week thing with someone you only saw a couple of times a week. And it’s even easier once you realize that that the only thing shittier than a breakup is being unable to date because you’re stuck in bed post-surgery injecting yourself with bloodthinners and groggily watching some reality TV show about the joys of home renovation. </p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">Because – watch out people! Literary Device Alert! Here comes a very subtle metaphor because I am a fancy, fancy writer! – after two years of medical limbo, I am happy to be back on the dating bike, and the social life bike, and the getting the fuck on with my life bike. (That’s a lot of bikes. What’s the metaphorical equivalent of padded bike shorts?)<span style=""> </span>And even though it means accepting the notion that the cane is here to stay, I’m happy that the Great Hip Replacement Debacle is receding into a small point in the rear view mirror. It’s nice to not to catch myself starting the bulk of my stories with, “So I was at physio and an old lady said…” </p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">So even though it didn’t lead to happily ever after, I’m glad to have a story that begins with the phrase “So I was dating this guy and he taught me how to ride a bike,” even if it ends with the phrase “yes, grandma, I’m still single. No, I’m not a lesbian.” Because several weeks after D. and I broke up, I bought myself a bike. Her name is Dorothy Mantooth and right now I only ride her around the quiet streets in my neighbourhood because cars seem like huge metal dinosaurs chasing me, though I have delusions of becoming a Serious Biker Who Wears Spandex And Refuels With Those Energy Gels.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">A few weeks ago, I rode around the Seawall again. I passed a gaggle of elderly ladies stopping every few seconds to take photos of birds. I passed a tourist couple who kept announcing Vancouver’s beauty every 3.8 seconds to one another. I even passed a pair of girls who looked mildly athletic. Granted, I got my ass handed to me by several middle-aged rollerbladers, but let’s go ahead and chalk this up to a solid victory.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">So if you’re in the Vancouver area and you see a very tall girl on a white bike making the Seawall her bitch, that is me, and I’m passing on the left. <i style="">Chime chime, </i>motherbitches!</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">And if you’re not in Vancouver and you’ve had a hip replacement and are looking for a safe way to relearn how to ride a bike without falling, here is a video of me doing so on a very good day with a guy I was dating. If you want to do a drinking game to this clip, take a shot everytime I say “yay!”</p><p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <!--EndFragment-->
<br /><iframe width="560" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DbuezF_Xxmw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-74919230469875165982011-04-05T23:24:00.000-07:002011-04-07T01:16:40.706-07:00I'm Back! Kind of. Maybe.After a six-month absence, I seem to have broken the cardinal rule of blogging, which is to post on a regular basis. I also broke the second cardinal rule of blogging, which is don't start a blog about your semi-detached ass, but I think I get a free pass on that one.<br /><br />So, after 224 posts spanning several hundred pages and nearly 2 years, why did I suddenly go AWOL? Was it because my hip magically healed itself, my gluteus medius grew back and there was nothing more to write about? Nope. Was it because I got tired of making jokes involving puns on the word 'half-assed?" Unlikely. That shit never gets old.<br /><br />In truth, there were several reasons, but the main one was that I just got busy. Right now, I have 3 jobs, 2 volunteer positions, a book coming out in the Fall and a cat who sits on my chest and slaps me in the face when I'm sleeping if I don't pay enough attention to her (true story). Plus, now that I'm living in Vancouver, land of "Would You Like Some Sky-High Rental Prices To Go With Your Seasonal Affective Disorder-Inducing Climate?", a girl's got to hustle to make ends meet.<br /><br />Honestly, I was also getting tired of talking about my hip replacement. After two surgeries, months of rehab, and countless people approaching me on the street to ask what's, like, wrong with me, I wanted to get off the Arthroplasty Express and spend a little time in Normal-28-Year-Old-Chick-Doing-Normal-Shit-Town. (Okay, yes, I know. 'Arley' and 'normal' go together as well as 'Vancouver' and 'sunny days.' But still!) I was beginning to get known as That Girl Who Had A Disastrous Hip Replacement instead of That Girl Will Publish Her Second Book By 28 or That Girl Who Looks Totally Awesome And I Wonder If She's Single.<br /><br />It all reached a boiling point when a guy I used to play wheelchair basketball with was like, "Arley's so obsessed with her hip. She doesn't talk about anything but her hip. She wants to have sex with her hip." I kind of freaked out and vowed to stop blogging that night. Working in wheelchair sports and having played them for most of my life, you get to know a lot of people with disabilities. 95% of those people are well-adjusted and generally awesome -- or well-adjusted but kind of douchy, it varies -- but there's a small percentage who seem to see themselves as A Disabled Person, as if that's the only thing about them. I didn't want to ever become the kind of person who devotes the bulk of their Facebook status updates to being like, "OMG! It is so hard being disabled! Recently, someone said something that could possibly have been perceived as discriminatory and I am going to freak the fuck out and go on an exclamation-point-fueled rant about how people are so ignorant and it's a good thing I'm so strong and brave and can overcome the weight of society pressing down upon me! P.S. I just got pink butterfly stickers for my wheelchair and they are totally rad." It's a problem whenever you can boil your identity down to a single phrase, whether it's 'disabled' or 'cat enthusiast' or 'a warlock with tiger blood and Adonis DNA' (#winning), and I didn't want anyone thinking of me as someone who's obsessed with her disability.<br /><br />Also, not going to lie, it's a little disconcerting to be like, "Good news! My blog gets over 5,000 visitors a month. Wait, bad news! 86% of those visitors are just here for the 'sexual healing' post I did on post-surgical sex positions, which means that there are a lot of sick fuckers out there jacking off to cartoons of old people getting it on to the point of hip dislocation." (Side note to whoever Googled "Arley McNeney naked" and/or "Arley McNeney boobs": If you need the help of Google to locate my boobs, you are probably never going to see them in real life. And by 'probably' I mean 'absolutely.' And by 'absolutely' I mean 'Seriously. Really. Eww.') Bottom line: if I'm going to be helping some guy get off, I want to at least be enjoying myself in the process.<br /><br />So those are the reasons why I left, but here are the reasons why I'm back. (Maybe. Hopefully. Depending on how the whole 'having 8 million jobs and trying to have a social life' thing pans out). First, my mom has been on my case about it forever. (Hi mom! Love you!). Second, however, my friend J.T. (no, not Justin Timberlake, though he and I are pretty close) is having a hip replacement tomorrow and we actually have the same surgeon. Don't worry, it's not the guy who did the first surgery!<br /><br />One of the cool things about "Young and Hip" has been hearing from people all over the world who are thinking of having a hip replacement or have already had one or who are supposed to have one but now I've terrified them and they'd rather drag their arthritis-stricken hips through hot lava than go through with the surgery and wind up like me. (To the latter group, I have this to say: Despite everything that happened, I wish I'd had the hip replacement years ago. If I'd had my surgery on a different day or with a different doctor, you would never have heard about me because I'd be off living my life thinking, 'Hey, remember that mildly-to-moderately painful time in my life when I got a hip replacement? That was so worth it for all the awesome shit I'm doing now.')<br /><br />Anyhow, while I've heard from tons of different hip replacement patients, I've never known anyone in real life who's my age and about to go through one. And considering all that J.T. has been through to get the surgery, I thought I'd give her a little shout out to wish her luck. So, good luck J.T.! Here's hoping that you recover quickly and are soon back to living the dream. Hip precautions may be annoying, but three months is a short period of time and soon you can throw away your ass cushion and post-hip-replacement sex manual and enjoy life as a pain-free bad-ass cyborg. Keep me posted!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-73309993948566396732010-11-01T10:08:00.000-07:002010-11-01T18:56:45.437-07:00The Charlie Sheen of EatingRight now, Red Cross helicopters are probably circling the Greater Champaign-Urbana area dropping food rations to desperate undergrads. The reason: Hurricane Arley blew into town for a few days and while I was there, I ate everything in a 30-mile radius. Like, literally everything. Even things that were only borderline edible; (I'm looking at you, three-year-old candy corn!)<br /><br />Over the weekend, I went on a 36-hour food bender, terrifying the locals and cutting a swath of destruction that can probably be seen from outerspace. Here is a tally of some of the damage:<br /><ul><li>Double-stuffed Oreos for breakfast! For breakfast! Instead of actual food!<br /></li><li>Delicious Black Dog beef brisket with fries!</li><li>Marshmallows the size of a baby's head courtesy of my awesome friend Karo!</li><li>Candy corn and various other holiday-themed morsels of corn-syrup-and-food-colouring-based goodness!</li><li>Pumpkin-spice frozen yogurt with graham cracker crumbs (for a pumpkin pie-like mouth feel, because I am a Michelin-starred chef when it comes to fro-yo sundae construction) and yogurt chips (for crunch and because I freaking love yogurt chips even though I'm 95% sure they are made entirely of wax)!<br /></li><li>Jimmy John's sandwiches at 3 a.m.! Freaky fast, freaky nostalgia-inducing!<br /></li><li>Erin McQ's delicious chicken pot pie and apple pie. The vegetables cancel out the pie crust and make it nutritious!<br /></li><li>A tailgating breakfast consisting of bacon-and-egg tortillas and mini cupcakes!<br /></li><li>My weight's worth of fun-sized Halloween candy. Fun fact: American "fun sized" chocolate bars are twice as large as Canadian "fun sized" chocolate bars. End result: double the fun. Also: double the diabetes!</li></ul>I am like the Charlie Sheen of eating, (well, except for the hooker locked in the bathroom part). The end result of this Bender of Deliciousness: I will be making a much bigger splash into the deep water aerobics pool than usual. Watch out, elderly ladies! I've picked up a little more gravity since the last time we met, but it won't slow me down.<br /><br />As you can tell from the excessive use of exclamation points in this post, I am still coming down off a sugar high. I am also coming down off the high of being around people who enjoy my company despite knowing full well what a ridiculous human being I can be. It's not that I don't have friends in Vancouver. I do. There is, however, a difference between having a handful of friends (even if they are good friends!) and having an actual social life. I miss the Wednesday-night Project Runway "reading group" and random dinner-and-DVD nights and going to concerts with more than one person and sitting at a bar/restaurant with a full table of people whose company you enjoy on a regular basis and just walking into a room where a few dozen people say, "Hey, Arley!" as opposed to giving me Vancouver hipster side eye.<br /><br />Okay, enough with the emo-ness. One of these days I will figure out the answer to the question of how someone meets people without the built-in friend machine known as school/ wheelchair basketball. Until then, however, I have recharged my social-skill batteries by seeing dozens of awesome people in a very short amount of time with very little sleep. Thanks to everyone who hung out with me/ ate or drank with me/ drove me to the airport despite the fact that Indianapolis is apparently changing its entire highway infrastructure at once.<br /><br />My little weekend jaunt was also a good lesson in how to travel post-hip-replacement. The day I flew to Champaign, the TSA had instituted a brand new pat-down policy, which is just like the old pat-down policy but with 75% more groping. Usually, airport security patdowns go something like this:<br /><br />Security guard: Can you empty out your pocket?<br />Me: There's nothing in my pocket. My hip replacement is setting off your metal detector.<br />Security guard: You're awfully young to have a hip replacement.<br />Me: Yes, yes I am.<br />Security guard: My grandma had a hip replacement a few years ago. She just loves it! She went skiing in Aspen! Now, I am just going to check in your pocket.<br />Me: Okay, but you've already checked there and it's just the metal of my hip replacement.<br />Security guard: What about your back pocket? There seems to be something in this back pocket. Perhaps you have some coins in there that you forgot to empty out.<br />Me: Do you not understand that someone chopped off the ball of my femoral head, sanded away my socket and replaced both with medical-grade cobalt chrome, and that these devices are implanted under my skin roughly equidistance between both my front and back pockets and are therefore setting off the metal detector wand in both places?<br />Security guard: I am not a doctor and therefore am not required as part of my job training to use common sense. Is there a reason why the area around your left hip is hot?<br />Me: Yes. I have a very small nuclear rector stored under my skin making tiny, tiny doses of plutonium. No, actually it's this thing called inflammation. Because. I. Had. A. Hip. Replacement.<br /><br />Now, however, the conversations are a little different:<br /><br />Security guard: Let me guess: you tore your ACL playing volleyball.<br />Me: No, I had a hip replacement.<br />Security guard: Oh. I guess that's better than a torn ACL. I heard they really hurt!<br />Me: ....<br />Security guard: *looking awkward* So, I just have to let you know that they brought in a new protocol for security pat-downs effective today.<br />Me: Oh yeah...<br />Security guard: *while awkwardly snapping on rubber gloves and avoiding my gaze* Yes, I am required by these new protocols to notify you in advance of some of the changes. For example, I will be placing one hand on your inner thigh and one hand on the outside of your hip and pressing inwards until I feel firm resistance. I am also required to check the waistband of your pants. I must also inform you that when I am inspecting a sensitive area, I will be using the back of my hand.<br />Me: Are you required by these new protocols to buy me a drink first? Or maybe meet my parents? Because I feel that this relationship is going really fast.<br />Security guard: ..... ha...ha...<br />Me: .....<br />Security guard: These new protocols are designed to make all Americans safer.<br /><br />So, you're welcome Americans! In the interest of public safety, I allowed some chick to run her hands along my inner thigh not once, but twice. I also let her run the back of my hand under my boobs, which apparently is not harassment since she used the back of her hand and not the front.<br /><br />You know that the new regulations are invasive when the security personnel, who are often made up of people who get pleasure out of being the worst part of someone's day, are made uncomfortable by it. I guess, however, that they probably have it worse off than I do, since can you imagine trying to find "firm resistance" on the inner thigh of a 90-year-old man? How would you know which was wrinkly old man thigh flesh and which was wrinkly old man ball sack?! (Too far? Too far).<br /><br />This, however, has given me a really great new pickup line. One of these days, I am going to go up to some guy and put the back of my hand on his crotch, then say, "It's not sexual harassment! I used the back of my hand! Homeland security demands it!" I'm groping for America.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-67130610893677768792010-10-15T22:27:00.001-07:002010-10-15T23:35:16.916-07:00Snakes on a Cane - The Highly Anticipated SequelFor the past six months, I have been in the market for a new cane. Before my most recent surgery, I didn't want to get a new one, even though mine makes an ungodly clinking noise when I walk and the handle is falling apart faster than my plans for a more robust dating life. I figured that if my gluteus medius got fixed, I eventually would be able to walk unaided and I should save my money for dealing with Vancouver beer prices ($4.50 for a warm PBR! Seriously, people!). But since the reattachment didn't work and I'm still legitimately half-assed, it looks like the cane will be my permanent +1. It's time to upgrade to a better model. Or at least a model that doesn't leave little gummy bits of handle rubber on my palms that resemble snot. (I know. So sexy).<br /><br />I've been down the cane-buying road before: the cat-themed canes; the sword canes (I can barely manage to not kill people with my regular cane. Lord help us all if I ever get one with a lethal weapon inside); the canes with a silver skull on the handle (unless it shoots lasers from the eyes, not interested); the ones made of lucite or topped with a wolf/eagle/dragon/mudflap girl/dolphin. Seriously, I like dolphins and all, but who likes dolphins enough to put up with brass dorsal fin sticking into your palm every time you try to walk? And also, someone needs to put a disclaimer on those canes that have the mudflap girl on them that if you use one, that's going to be the only naked girl riding on your shaft for the rest of your life. (Too far? Too far.)<br /><br />No, I attract enough attention walking down the street as it is. What I need is a cane that blends into the background, like some kind of a secret service agent. A cane that says, "I have a permanent disability, so stop asking me if I've sprained my ankle because if I hear the phrase 'Gosh, what did you do to yourself?' one more time I am going to shank someone" while also saying "Oh, and by the way, I'm not 90 years old and can still bring the hotness." A cane that does its job as a mobility aid but doesn't look like a lifestyle choice.<br /><br />You'd think this would be easy: go online, find a cane that's tall enough and unobtrusive, purchase it and have it arrive to my door thanks to the power of the internets. No. Incorrect. For one, the website design of most online cane stores looks fresh from a Geocities fan page circa 1996 and it's nearly impossible to navigate any of them. Plus, just out of principle, I'm not buying anything from a store that has a GIF of a snowman dancing along the screen or that claims to be marketing its products to the "enfeebled."<br /><br />The second problem, however, is that I've discovered that most canes have names more suited to sex toys and I cannot take them seriously. Here are some examples:<br /><ul><li>The Black Mamba</li><li>The Tuxedo Night Stick</li><li>The Blackthorn Premium Knob</li><li>Mylord With Grapes</li><li>The Magician's Wand</li><li>The Regency Scrimshaw Bulb</li><li>The Lady Blowing Horn</li><li>The Alpaca Horn of Plenty</li><li>The Burgandy StripTease (not even kidding)</li><li>The Powder Pink Soft Touch</li></ul>I'm sorry, but do I want some delivery person coming to my house and asking my mom if she'll sign for a Power Pink Soft Touch with adjustable shaft? No. No I do not. It's not happening. Alas, I have a feeling that the Great Cane Hunt of 2010 is going to last longer than SurgeonWatch 2009. The excitement around here really never ceases.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-23312597712728468542010-10-09T10:10:00.000-07:002010-10-09T12:42:49.744-07:00Ass Lasers to the Rescue!If you look at my calendar, you'll see October 20th circled and surrounded by stars, hearts, butterflies and happy faces. No, it's not my birthday (though International Arley Appreciation day comes up on November 15th, so you might want to stock up on some more candles and incense to spruce up your Arley shrine). October 20th is the day that my hip restrictions will finally be over.<br /><br />Yes, my life is about to get marginally less awkward! No more will I have to explain to passersby on the street that my ass cushion is not a very large, squishy briefcase. No more will I have to say the phrases, "No, I did not sprain my ankle. I had a hip replacement. Yes, I'm very young to have a hip replacement. I'm glad to hear your grandma's doing well after her knee replacement in 2005." No more will I trip random waiters because I have to stick my incredibly long leg out into the aisle when I'm sitting down (although my chances of getting attractive men to land in my lap is now significantly reduced).No more will I forgo dates because visions of <a href="http://youngandhip.blogspot.com/2010/07/invisible-cartoon-old-people-pornyes.html">cartoon old people</a> in the post-hip-replacement sex manual getting it on are dancing (and by 'dancing' I mean 'f*cking to the point of hip dislocation') in my head.<br /><br />Yes, there's light at the end of the Tunnel of Hip Replacement Ridiculousness. For the past few years, my diva hip has been the star of the Arley show. First, my hip was subluxing/dislocating/migrating south for the winter and I spent a good year traumatizing my family and friends by having them tug on my leg to put it back in the socket. Then, there was the first hip replacement and the ensuing melodrama and the second hip replacement and the ensuing hours spent in physio getting dating advice from old people. I am now equipped with a full-time post at the Ministry of Silly Walks and a lifetime of jokes about being half-assed.<br /><br />But while the hip crisis is beginning to go from "Life-Consuming" to "Generally Annoying," other body parts are stepping in for their moment in the sun. For the past two weeks, one of my ribs has been out of alignment, which is causing breathing to be very difficult and is generally making me crankier than a cat at a water park. (How did you pop your rib out of alignment, Arley? Oh...you know...just living the dream).<br /><br />This means that not only does my poor physio have to teach me how to not walk like a crack zombie, she also has to stand on a stool so she can get enough leverage to push my rib into its home while trying not to push my spinal facets or SI joints out of alignment. Sometimes it feels like my bones were designed by Picasso. Having a Skeleton: You're Doing it Wrong.<br /><br />Granted, I didn't do myself any favours when I fell down the stairs last Friday, which is the exact thing that the 85-year-olds at physio are always warning me not to do (along with not dating tall men to avoid having daughters with big feet, but that's another story). I got a little cocky and thought, "Since I am the Queen of Recovery, for my next trick I will go downstairs backwards on slippery stairs in equally slippery shoes and that should work out well for me." As I felt myself falling, I panicked, grabbed my crutches, and twisted my hip hard, which caused my semi-detached gluteus medius to swell up to a gluteus maximus.<br /><br />To calm the swelling and force my body parts to play nice, my physiotherapist pulled out the big guns: lasers. At first, I was worried, since my familiarity with lasers comes from the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers and I am already part evil robot. I was assured, however, that the lasers would calm the swelling and reduce the pain. Bring on the happy lasers! Cut to me, a few minutes later, laying on my side with my pants down as my physio (wearing large eye-shielding goggles reminiscent of the ones old ladies who have had cataract surgery wear to drive) presses the laser into the side of my hip and my ass. Ass lasers to the rescue! Dignity not required! I'm pretty sure this is not the way most people spend their Friday afternoon, but I have to admit that that the lasers did the job. The swelling in my ass had gone down enough by Friday evening to cram myself into skinny jeans. And if skinny jeans aren't a benchmark to recovery, I don't know what is.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-44953920891405780292010-09-28T12:44:00.000-07:002010-09-28T23:11:31.112-07:00Rocking the 2010WWRCEven when I'm not dealing with a hip re-replacement, I am still the Commander-In-Chief of AwkwardLand. I mean, if someone's going to accidentally light their hair on fire or fall and headbutt someone while trying to give them a hug, it's going to be me. When you add crutches, 16-hour work days, sleep deprivation, alcohol, a diet composed nearly entirely of coffee and the world's largest ass cushion into the equation, I basically become the Ultimate Grand Supreme Champion of Awkwardness and General Ridiculousity.<br /><br />That was me at the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships, where I've been for the past few weeks working on the communications team. I've extolled the virtues of wheelchair rugby on this blog before and it's hard to describe the 2010WWRC with any other word but "awesome." Awesome rugby. Awesome people. Awesome event. Oh, and free Starbucks. Sweet, sweet Starbucks.<br /><br />But while I'm a huge fan of wheelchair rugby, I can't say that my Freaky Cyborg Hip was too terribly impressed. The most painful part of recovery is clearly over, but the hip replacement provided endless opportunities for annoyance. It doesn't help that I have the patience of a sugar-high toddler or that I'd spent the past 6 weeks in bed eating frozen grapes and was not exactly used to being out and about.<br /><br />The really strange part of having a hip replacement is that there are certain things that you physically could do (bending, twisting, crossing legs, etc), but you're not allowed to do them for fear of dislocation. After a few 16-hour work days and (let's be honest) a beer or two, the list of what you are and are not allowed to do becomes a little fuzzy around the edges and you can barely remember your name, let alone whether your air guitar rendition of "Living on a Prayer" is hip-replacement kosher or where you left your damn ass cushion.<br /><br />Mostly, however, the problem was less pain and more annoyance. Annoyance at trying to balance crutches, an ass cushion and a tray full of Starbucks. Annoyance at having to call my friend C. to come pull my car out of the parking lot after some douche-kabob in an SUV parked so close to me that I couldn't open my door enough to get my left leg in. Annoyance at having to cruise the parking lot for a corner spot to prevent people from parking too close, being unable to find one, and having to park in the wheelchair parking and endure major side-eye from quadriplegics (and rightfully so). Annoyance at every well-intentioned volunteer or passerby or hotel staff who used the phrase "Gosh, you're really good on those there crutches! Bet you could beat me in a race!" or "What did you do to yourself? Sprain your ankle?" Annoyance at having to install a raised toilet seat in our hotel room, thereby turning the bathroom into a death trap for my poor roommate Shelley. Annoyance at trying to "dance" (translation: "moving my knee roughly in time to the music while waving my hands as if trying to put out a fire") on crutches.<br /><br />That said, I think the trial-by-fire of the 2010WWRC ended up being good for the hip. Every day, the swelling actually reduced and the pain got less. It's also hard to remember you're in pain when you're having such a good time and when you have awesome friends who fly all the way from Illinois to party at the 2010WWRC and who generally rock your world. Besides, am I really going to complain about a semi-detached ass in a room full of quadriplegics?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-87405204932656136972010-09-09T22:20:00.000-07:002010-09-09T23:48:17.041-07:00Back in the Saddle AgainI have just four words to describe my first post-surgical outing to the PNE:<br />Deep.<br />Fried.<br />Oreos.<br />Yes!<br /><br />Okay, I would have to step down as the Crown Princess of Verbosity if that was my entire post, but luckily there's a lot more to say on the subject. I'm not sure what lead me to think, "Gee, I have been in bed for a month straight and have had major surgery, so I should really ease myself back in to the land of the living by going to Vancouver's largest summer fair on a long weekend along with thousands of other people who would shank your mother for the last mini-donut....for 8 hours."<br /><br />Actually, that particular thought process was caused by a few key factors:<br />1) I'm kind of a moron when it comes to gauging my tolerance for things.<br />2) I heard the siren song of the funnel cake in all its deep-fried, powdered-sugary-y seductiveness. Also: the siren song of the cotton candy, the poutine, the fresh-squeezed lemonade, the donairs, and (of course) the deep-fried oreos. It was a veritable siren-song doo-wop group.<br />3) It was a chance to spend time with several of the friends I still have in Vancouver. Plus, sometimes you've just got to give your hip a little pat and say, "Okay, hip. You've been in the driver's seat for the past month, but now it's time to scootch over to the passenger's seat and buckle up tight because I'm about to rev the engine."<br /><br />The problem with going places post-hip-replacement is not the walking, though granted that sucks quite a bit. No, the real issue is sitting. There are many different shows at the PNE (the horse jumping....the Chinese acrobats...the SuperDogs...the random guy in a booth who spray-paints a Hummer about 8 million times a day then cleans it with some special cleaning product and progressively gets more loopy as the spray paint fumes get to him) and all of these shows require sitting on hip-precaution-breaking seats. I therefore had to travel with a chaperone: my huge-ass hip replacement cushion.<br /><br />I thought I was being crafty by shoving the hip-replacement cushion into a backpack. The problem: getting it in and out of the backpack was harder than squeezing my ass into skinny jeans. It was literally a two-person job. Maybe my hip-replacement cushion had also been snacking on some deep-fried oreos, because as the day progressed, it got harder and harder to wrestle it into the bag. Worse: the person who ended up helping me was Shira and Jeff's friend C., who I barely know, and whose system has not built up a tolerance to my usual level of ridiculousness. (He was, thankfully, very nice about the whole thing). Nothing like the phrase "Hi, nice to meet you. Want to spend part of your relaxing weekend help me shove an ass cushion roughly the width of your grandma's Laz-E-Boy into this backpack 8 or 10 times a day?" to really make an impression. Really good way to meet people in Vancouver.<br /><br />Still, it's good to know that I'm easing my way back into the saddle (the metaphorical saddle...the literal saddle would break hip precautions). Giddyup!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-38501691925492692462010-08-30T21:29:00.000-07:002010-08-31T00:40:49.128-07:00Not Taking This Sitting DownI apologize for the radio silence. I hope no one thought that I had been attacked by a gang of rogue physio oldsters agitated into a jealous rage over my progress at physio. (Don't worry. I keep a bag of lint-covered peppermints in my pocket for such an occasion). No, the reason for my absence is that even though my ass is pretty much still stuck in bed, the power of the internets means that I'm kept on my toes by work, socializing (hey, Skype counts as socializing) and various internships.<br /><br />Right now, two things are keeping my bed's ass groove firmly indented:<br /><ol><li>The whole "brand, spanking new hip joint makes sitting and standing painful" thing, plus the fact that hip restrictions make doing cool things less cool (we all remember the sex manual, yes?). </li><li>I know very few people in Vancouver (or, at least, very few people who I can't guilt trip into coming to visit me), which gives me little-to-no incentive to put on clothing that did not come courtesy of my former national team's Nike sponsorship. (Hey, no one said that the 'it' in "Just Do It" couldn't refer to eating frozen grapes while watching Alton Brown teach you how to cook a perfect porterhouse steak). I mean, if you're going to spend 15 minutes wrestling your jeans on with a grabber, you should probably go somewhere better than "to the mall to look at clothing you cannot try on without the aforementioned grabber, thus filling you with the rage of small animals."</li></ol>Factor #1 is still in play. Those of you who are familiar with my neverending battle against my anti-ass know that I have never liked sitting. I like it even less after someone recently chiseled out my hip's ball and socket and used power tools to install a new one. Here's how I sit:<br /><ol><li>Lug around an ass cushion 4 times the size of your laptop, which is great fun when you're still walking on crutches.<br /></li><li>Lay the ass cushion on a chair, though the fact that it is bigger than the surface of the chair will almost guarantee that it will fall off at some point in time.</li><li>Try to lower yourself (without breaking hip precautions!) on to the chair. When the ass cushion falls off or slides out from under you, you will not be able to adjust it without breaking hip restrictions or reaching for your grabber. Since you do not want to ask someone to reach between your legs and give your ass cushion a good yank, you will settle for riding a four-inch-thick square of foam side saddle.<br /></li><li>Perch on the terribly askew ass cushion with your bad leg stuck out and your back jammed against the backrest so that the bones of your spine are bruised, requiring you to stick one hand behind your back between your spine and your backrest, like Napoleon in reverse.<br /></li><li>Realize that you look like some sort of broken life-sized marionette.<br /></li><li>Or like a contestant on America's Top Geriatric Model. (The only people who sit worse than I do are models in fashion magazines. I suspect they, too, are plagued by the scourge of ass bruising).</li><li>Or like some sort of gout-stricken king after feasting on an entire roast pig and swilling jugs of mead.<br /></li></ol>You can therefore see why it takes a lot more than boredom to get me out of the house.<br /><br />This week, however, I've finally received the motivation I need to leave the comfort of my room: my friend S., who recently moved to Vancouver from Australia to do a four-month internship. She was staying at my place for awhile and I'm assuming that she did not move halfway around the world to get the grand tour of my favourite daytime reality TV shows. It was time to put on my big girl pants and head out into the real world.<br /><br />S. moving to Vancouver, by the way, is all part of my master plan. See, I have a great many talents: picking things up with the toes on my right foot (they are like monkey toes!); making French buttercream; injecting business correspondence with the appropriate dash of "You Attitude." The list goes on. But meeting new people? Not really a strong suite. Nine times out of 10, I will knock something over with my elaborate hand gestures and the person will assume I have a meth addiction. Solution: Bring all my old friends to Vancouver! (Are you listening, people of Champaign-Urbana?)<br /><br />Granted, S. and I did spend a significant amount of time watching Dexter re-runs online. But I also went on my first real post-surgical excursion....to the Richmond Night Market. Why I thought that I should take my first non-physio-or-doctor-related trip at a place jammed with thousands of jostling and shoving people, many of whom are carrying squid on pointy sticks, I don't know. I do know, however, that I was able to maneuver past the stalls that specialize in handmade false eyelashes, past the accupuncturist who boasted of his ability to cure "Human Pain," past the snake exhibit and the rows of LED-lighted T-shirts that light up in time to music, past the stand after stand carrying delicious dim-sum goodness and potato chips on sticks. I tasted victory and it tasted like chocolate-pudding bubble tea!<br /><br />The next day, I even went to my friend T's house with S. (and my ass cushion) to eat a delicious dinner and fawn over her cats. For ages I've had a standing appointment with my bed and suddenly I've sprung back into action. Make way, real world. I'm slowly creeping my way back towards you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-33708608342150261002010-08-22T00:31:00.000-07:002010-08-22T10:47:01.138-07:00On the Cat Walk. On the Cat Walk, Yeah.One of the few times I leave the house these days is to go on my physio-prescribed walks around the neighbourhood. Seeing as how I live on the mean streets of New Westminster, (we might get turn-of-the-century-small-town-charmed to death), it's lucky that my mom and I have protection during these excursions: my guard cat Mika, who insists on joining us for every single walk. I think it's safe to say that no baby bunnies or starlings will be harassing us while Mika's on patrol.<br /><br />This is therefore the sight that the good people of New Westminster see as I pass every day: me, shuffling along with my crutches, wearing baggy workout clothing and a pair of stained MaryJanes because they're the only shoes that don't a) give me blisters or b) require the use of a "sock aid" and shoe horn to put on, glasses askew, hair looking like that of a Barbie doll that's spent years in the bottom of atoybox , calling out every once in awhile to my cat to cajole her into coming out from a hedge and reminding her that she's a "good girl." I could not look more like a psychiatric-ward patient if I put on a tinfoil hat or one of those apocalyptic-themed sandwich boards. Step right up, boys. Can I interest anyone in a copy of my post-surgical <a href="http://youngandhip.blogspot.com/2010/07/invisible-cartoon-old-people-pornyes.html">sex manual</a>? Anyone? Not all at once.<br /><br />During my first hip replacement, Mika lived with A. I had worried that she would be a tripping hazard or that she would jump up on my freshly operated-on hip and thought it best that she stay with someone who could lavish her with the attention she deserves. This time, however, I didn't have a choice in the matter. And sure enough....Mika's a tripping hazard and jumps up on my freshly operated-on hip. Actually, she doesn't so much 'jump up on' my hip as she does 'stand on me and dig her tiny paw right into my hip in her efforts to reach over my body to drink from my water glass on the bedside table, which often results in me being woken up not only by the pain of having 10 pounds of cat foot on a place that was recently sliced and diced, but also by the clunking noise of Mika trying to free herself from the water glass that she's gotten her head stuck in.<br /><br />Mika is also making it difficult to keep my hip restrictions. When she comes for walks, I'm always tempted to turn around to see where she is (I do my little turn on the cat walk), especially when she meows at me when I get too far ahead. Turning is a major hip-replacement no no because you can't twist from your hip.Mika also likes to rub her face on my crutches to claim them as her own (uh...you can have them, cat), which causes her to weave in and out of my unsteady feet.<br /><br />Worse, she's unable to read the "I just had major surgery" memo, so she doesn't understand why I can't reach down to pet her while she's on the floor, or why I can't pick her up or why I take a really long time to shuffle over to the sink to turn on the tap so she can have a drink. It's one thing to be frustrated because you can't pick up your pants from the floor. It's another to have your little cat rolling on the floor in front of you as if to say, "Don't I look cute? Wouldn't you like to just break your hip precautions and risk possible prosthesis loosening and/or dislocation just once by reaching down to scratch me under the chin?"<br /><br />All that aside, it's really good to have Mika here. There are few things in this world that a purring cat doesn't cure. Okay, actually there are a lot of things that a purring cat won't cure, (gluteus medius detachment, for example), but she is damn good at relieving the melancholy that comes from weeks spent in bed watching reality TV shows about American prisons.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-55824340245593287612010-08-16T21:13:00.000-07:002010-08-16T22:42:27.611-07:00Pulled Pork Injury!!There's a new season of America's Next Top Model coming up and I know you'll all be shocked that I'm not trying out. It's been nearly three weeks since my surgery and I am clearly on the fast-track to hotness. I mean, check out what I have to offer:<br /><ul><li>Legs that have not been shaved because of the whole "hip restrictions and bloodthinners" thing. Well, that and they're longer than the "Clan of the Cave Bears" saga and I have trouble reaching them at the best of times.<br /></li><li>Legs that have not been moisturized on account of said hip restrictions, making me a more ideal contestant for America's Next Top She-Lizard.</li><li>A uniform of dri-fit shorts and workout T-shirts accented with dried noodles and honey-mustard sauce. Stylish and tasty! Bra not included!<br /></li><li>The finishing bag-lady touch: stained, falling-apart Mary Janes, which are the only slip-on shoes that don't give me blisters.<br /></li><li>Stress-induced eczema! Don't worry, it just <span style="font-style: italic;">looks</span> like ringworm!<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></li><li>The red-hot three-weeks-post-surgery strut, coming to live from that catwalk known as "the block around my house."<br /></li></ul>Oh yeah. I know you're feeling it.<br /><br />But today, I took hotness to a whole new level. For the past few weeks, my poor mom has had to slave away making me meals. (Thanks, mom!) On today's menu: pulled pork sandwiches. Now, pulled pork and I have a long and storied romance. Half of the world's greatest love songs could have been written about my feelings towards this dish. You could literally put pulled pork on ice cream and I would be down with it.<br /><br />These days are not exactly filled with epic highs. I mean, the zenith of last week was eating those Swedish Fish candies. So you can imagine my emotional state leading into this moment of pulled porkery. I already had my stretchy eatin' pants on. I picked up my sandwich expecting a warm, gooey, sweet bite of pulled-pork awesomeness. Instead, here's what I got:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGK9GPQlbWPSIO_XxedqI4sJXlyboyWLz8ml3DzdW6hj_e2J3Xt_9LdzVgwirB6unDlbK_d7vRgg08lnlioUo56ZFZZqj6B_Avpc3xZZey9FgOtyPOAAAWEjxhsa5N9MGc2bnSnSz2KY/s1600/Photo+on+2010-08-16+at+20.10+%232.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuGK9GPQlbWPSIO_XxedqI4sJXlyboyWLz8ml3DzdW6hj_e2J3Xt_9LdzVgwirB6unDlbK_d7vRgg08lnlioUo56ZFZZqj6B_Avpc3xZZey9FgOtyPOAAAWEjxhsa5N9MGc2bnSnSz2KY/s320/Photo+on+2010-08-16+at+20.10+%232.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506227803462446018" border="0" /></a>A first-degree burn from molten BBQ sauce on my face and hand! Yes, I sustained a pulled pork injury. When porky goodness attacks! Unnatural! I have given pulled pork only love and respect and this is how I get repaid? Pulled pork is supposed to bring only joy, comfort and occasionally mild-to-moderate gastrointestinal distress when it is served in certain dim sum restaurants that are now out of business. Because what I really needed to bring my attractiveness quotient to the next level was a burn that looks like I have some sort of sexually transmitted ulcer. Thank you, life! Thank you very much.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-48540972119821610082010-08-12T23:11:00.000-07:002010-08-12T23:47:43.596-07:00Arley 3.0: Sweating With the Not-So-OldiesYesterday was my second day in physio and I am well on my way to becoming teacher's pet, as opposed to last time when I was basically in the hip equivalent of special ed. Someone give me a gold star! The first day, we did a few slow, gentle exercises. This time, however, it was time to get on a bullet train known as the Recovery Express. In the words of the ridiculous Home Depot ad that has been playing on my TV roughly 8 million times a day, it was time to "kick my doing dial up a notch."<br /><br />I came to physio expecting to work out for 45 minutes to an hour. Ninety minutes later, I was still sweating away on this "step-fit" machine that's like a cross between an elliptical machine, a stationary bike and a stair master...if you can imagine it. I was like one of those show ponies...or a dog in an agility course (well, maybe 'agility' is the wrong word...). I'm swinging my legs in swings! I'm pulling my leg with a lever! I'm squeezing and tightening! I'm lifting and lowering! I'm doing 5 minutes on the step-fit machine! I'm doing some sort of bizarre squatting thing on the balance bars like an arthritic, polio-stricken ballerina! I'm bending over forward on the physio bed waggling my ass in the air while trying to raise my legs in a manner not befitting of a lady!<br /><br />I, of course, was loving it. I was like some sort of slobbery St. Bernard let loose for a romp in the forest. I was picking up a scent and it smelled like recovery. Despite the fact that it's only been two weeks, it feels like a lifetime since I've flailed away on an elliptical machine with Jesus and Mary Chain cranked up to the point where my ears start to hum. Even five minutes on the "stair fit" felt like the "running up the stairs" scene in Rocky. (To be fair, "Eye of the Tiger" does loop almost constantly in my head, so even brushing my teeth feels like the "running up the stairs" scene in Rocky).<br /><br />You might be saying to yourself, "But Arley. Aren't you pacing yourself against people who remember the Hoover Administration?" No. Incorrect. Last year, I went to physio at 8:30 a.m. and the clinic was packed full of the "6 a.m. breakfast at the Jiffy Wiffy Waffle House" set. You know, the type of elderly person for whom restaurants keep liver and onions on the menu from between 4 pm and 5:30. For whatever reason, old people like mornings, and old people who need a hip or knee replacement like morning physio appointments.<br /><br />My new time is in the afternoon and the crowd is a lot younger. I mean, not "going to a Justin Bieber concert" young....or even "going to a Michael Buble concert" young...or, come to think of it, not even a "going to a Paul Anka concert and then gushing about how no one makes real music these days" young. But they're definitely younger and more spry. There were even a few people that seemed to be roughly my age. I have a lot of competition in the optimization department.<br /><br />And to those of you who are pointing out that physio is actually not a competition and that there is no prize for the fastest recovery....also incorrect. If I've learned one thing from years of wheelchair basketball, it's that literally anything can be made into a competition. So the next time you're in the grocery store and you feel as if someone is staring you down, radiating the intense focus of a champion....that's me. And I will get the freshest watermelon.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-44194621721861579842010-08-09T21:45:00.000-07:002010-08-10T10:52:56.532-07:00Arley 3.0: Bring on the OptimizationThere are few things in life more soul-blisteringly frustrating than being out-performed by an old man in slippers....especially if that man has pieces of food in his goatee...especially if his hip replacement was months after yours. After my first hip replacement, I spent six months at the out-patient physical therapy clinic at Burnaby Hospital, where I was treated to a revolving door of wizened gnome-men and shrunken old ladies in sweatpants, all of whom were literally walking circles around me. Let's just say that it's not so easy to concentrate on your "clamshell" exercises when some broad in a Bedazzled cat sweatshirt in the bed next to you is sizing you up as if to say, "You think that's a leg lift? That's really the best you've got? Compared to you, I look like I'm working the pole at Girls, Girls, Girls."<br /><br />Every time I tried unsuccessfully to navigate the stairs or swing my leg in the physio sling, every other patient in the room would get a twinkle of superiority in their eye. I should have applied for federal grant money because I was doing a freaking public service by boosting the self-esteem of the elderly. You can therefore see why I was nervous about my first day at physio following the second hip replacement. It's been a rough few months: the leaving Illinois, the surgery, the hours of Home and Garden television. Could I handle the smugness of people who got their hip replacements after re-enacting that "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercial?<br /><br />Actually, I was excited about physio, if only because it was a chance to get out of my bed. I am not very good at the whole "taking it easy" thing. "Take it too hard to the point that you injure yourself:" that's me. "Sulking for months in bed because you go a little nuts when you're not constantly on the go:" also me. Bottom line: I don't like being still and I was ready to get this recovery show on the road.<br /><br />When I arrived at Burnaby Hospital, I discovered that the out-patient physical therapy clinic had been changed into a new "Optimization Clinic." See, I'm all about the euphemisms. I don't need months of physiotherapy, I just need a little....optimization. Just tweaking! Minor alterations to allow me to be the best cyborg I could be! Just tighten those bolts and lube up those joints and I'm good to go! Physiotherapy clinic says "Spend hours out of your day watching the graying flesh on an old woman's thigh swaying in the traction slings." Optimization clinic, however, says, "Girl, you are already fabulous. Hold on to your crutches, ladies, because we're about to crank the awesomeness amps up to 11!"<br /><br />And you know what? After six months of hearing "your progress is slower than the plot of an Ann Michaels novel," I was surprised to hear the phrase "you are actually...doing pretty well." I guess this is what they mean when they say that a hip replacement is a routine surgery. I mean, at 9 days post-surgery last time, I was still in the hospital. Hell, I was going downstairs backwards until about 8 weeks post-surgery.<br /><br />This time, however, I was able to do nearly every exercise the physio asked me to do, and I spent most of the appointment weighing my progress against an old lady who kept exclaiming, "Bless his holy socks!" Bless his holy socks, indeed, because I was kicking ass and taking names. Move over, people, because Arley 3.0 has arrived to show you how this optimization business is done. Cyborg power!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-25567166880721336742010-08-05T19:14:00.000-07:002010-08-05T22:36:28.154-07:00Arley 3.0: This Won't Make The Highlight ReelIt's been over a week since the surgery and the really gross stuff is probably over. The incision is healing even though the staples aren't out; it's been nearly a week since my stomach behaved like it belonged to a sorority girl a few hours after a barn dance; and even though it still takes me 30 minutes to heroin-shuffle around the block in my workout clothes, my pain is decreasing and my nap-to-walking ratio is probably down to 2:1.<br /><br />The problem is, however, that I'm settling into what is arguably the hardest part of having surgery, at least for me: the boring part. The "trying to decide between a re-run of a show that explores the complex world of Minneapolis 20-somethings trying to buy a house they can't afford and a re-run of a show that explores that complex world of a 30-something couple from Dallas trying to re-landscape their garden" part. The "being in the same position on the same bed with the same view wearing the same workout clothes for weeks at a time" part. The "having to rely on people to bring you every glass of water, spoon, or carrot stick and, when you're home alone, having to weigh whether it's better to stay hungry or drag your ass downstairs to find food that you can consume in the kitchen since you can't carry anything upstairs" part. The "having to take shuffle steps to close the door behind you in the bathroom because hip restrictions prevent you from twisting" part. The "not being able to sleep because I spend all day in bed and my so-called 'sleep hygiene' is poor" part.<br /><br />Yeah, I better develop a fondness for wry British murder mysteries on PBS because I suspect that this is how it feels to be old. I know. Whiny, right? Anyhow, the point is that nothing that happens for the next 3 months will likely make it in the highlight reel when they make an action-packed movie of my life and that's a weird state to be in. I guess the good part is that at least I've gone through this once. The ass indentation in my bed in pre-indented. I am so adept at working the grabber it's like a Go-Go-Gadget arm. More importantly, however, I know that it will eventually pass. Eventually. In theory.<br /><br />Ok, time to pack up the pity party. Tomorrow's my first day of physio and I need to be firing on all systems to deal with being out-run by 90-year-oldsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-15653450254580130552010-08-04T08:36:00.000-07:002010-08-05T21:59:35.310-07:00What to Expect When You're Expecting to Become a Cyborg: The Hip Replacement!When I started this blog nearly a year ago, my original intention was to write about my own hip-replacement experience so that people going through the same thing would hear something more than the "OMG, it's going to be the best experience ever! It's the surgery version of Disneyland! You will be skipping around in fields of wild flowers while lute music sweetly serenades you in no time!" you get from most people in the hip-replacement world. (Yeah, I might pretend to be the Mother Theresa of the Arthroplasty, but everyone knows my real motivation was fame and fortune. Google AdSense, you owe me $20.18!)<br /><br />I may not be able to offer any useful tips (beyond "try not to have your ass fall off"), but I sure can provide a travelogue of the hip-replacement wilderness for future travelers. I'm like the Lonely Planet Guide, but instead of telling you about what hostels are less likely to give you fleas, I'm telling you about how it feels to be awake while someone takes a power saw to your midsection. If you're squeamish, you might want to move along to the next post while dreaming of fluffy kittens.<br /><br />On the day of the surgery, I got up at 4:30 a.m. so that I could have a shower. You might be thinking, "Why not get up at 5 a.m. and skip the shower?" Quick answer: Because I knew that my next shower would be three or four days later when I would be dizzy, covered in pink antiseptic wash and sitting on a shower chair swearing a blue streak because a) I dropped my washcloth and there is literally no way to pick it up without breaking hip precautions b) every time I look down I see the 30-something staples along the side of my leg and c) I have to juggle a hand-held shower that is twisting in my hand like a cobra and spraying water all over my towel. (Okay, that wasn't a quick answer).<br /><br />After you check in to the hospital, you go to a pre-op holding pen where you are visited by a never-ending stream of medical professionals. It's like being Scrooge in "A Nightmare Before Christmas" but with fewer figgy puddings and more needles. For some reason, most of these medical professionals turned out to be young, attractive males. At first, I was like "screw Plenty of Fish! Bring on Plenty of Interns With Incredible Earning Potential! Let's hope that sleep deprivation has the same effect as beer goggles!"<br /><br />Alas, it ended up like the most disappointing romance novel ever. Instead of having the hot young intern give me his phone number, he signed his initials in felt pen on my upper thigh so that the surgical team wouldn't slice up the wrong leg. (It's actually still there). When I originally met the hot anesthesiologist intern, I was like, "Damn, you can slide your epidural needle into my joint space any time." After the 5 attempts it took him to get my IV in, however, I had to amend that to "no...seriously...any time now....whenever you're ready."<br /><br />After an hour of that, it was finally go time. I was wheeled into the OR room and transferred on to the table to get my epidural. I mentioned in a previous post that it took two epidural injections, probably about 8 or 9 attempts, and over a dozen local anesthetic doses to get me frozen. Seriously, if I heard the phrase "you'll just feel a little poke here...." one more time I was going to give them a little poke with my fist in their face. Now, I had a terrible case of mono a few years back and the result is that when I get tired, dehyrated, hungry or...I don't know....all of the above while being jabbed with needles over and over again, I tend to faint. Long story short: I keeled over like one of those goats that George Clooney stares at. They had to finish the epidural with me laying on my side.<br /><br />This time, they did the hip replacement through the back way, which unfortunately means that I cannot look at my proper, gentlemanly, pink-polo-shirt-wearing surgeon without hearing Howlin Wolf's "Backdoor Man." So that I could assume the back-door position, (I'm not being dirty! That's what they call it!) they set up some vises, laid me on my side, and clamped me on to the table as if I was a 2 X 8 on a sawhorse. The powertools laid out by me did little to detract from the effect. It was a little like being part of some "saw the woman in half" magic trick, since people kept draping me with fabric and, you know, actually sawing through my bones.<br /><br />To sedate me, they gave me a little sip of the Michael Jackson cocktail, Propofol, so for most of the surgery I was in and out of consciousness. I could feel twisting and hammering and sawing and pulling, but was drugged up enough to feel that the most appropriate response would be to have a conversation with Hot Anesthesiologist Intern. Lord knows what we talked about. I shudder to think. (Maybe this is what I need to talk to guys....surgical-grade sedatives). My final memory of the surgery: seeing one of the assistant surgeons with his face shield sprayed with drops of my blood informing me that they were just stitching me up.<br /><br />After that, it's on to the recovery room. Because of the problems with the epidural, I was frozen for much longer than expected, which means that I spent four hours listening to an endless parade of morphine-addled old people, one of whom would not stop noting aloud how sorry she felt for a nurse who was a recent single mother, how very, very sorry she was, how unfortunate it was that some poor children were growing up without a father. It also meant that they had to put a catheter in which, even though I was partially frozen, still wasn't the most fun thing to ever happen to my lady business. (Those of you asking what exactly would be the most fun that ever happened to my lady business need to check yourself). Yes, having a hip replacement definitely means checking your dignity at the door.<br /><br />And on that sexy note, I'm going to go back to sleep. Yup, still blogging with a little help from Vitamin D...and I'm not talking about the kind you get from sunshine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5680638617145797428.post-92191708170549709842010-08-02T08:05:00.000-07:002010-08-02T10:00:47.485-07:00Arley 3.0: Now With More MorphineIt's 5 days after surgery and this post is brought to you by the letter D for Dilauded AKA Hydromorphone AKA "Surgery? What surgery? Why am I dreaming of cartoon hamsters?" Yes, after my second hip replacement I am "keeping comfortable" on the same drug that's keeping Lindsey Lohan "comfortable" while she's chilling in jail. The only difference is that she got it for a minor dental procedure and I had to stay another night in the hospital because of the difficulties of getting a prescription for it, even though someone took power tools to my hip's joint space. Man, celebrity has its perks. (On that note, how does Lindsey Lohan get counted as a celebrity? Who is jail is thinking, "Well, I know she hijacked a car and drove three terrified passengers on a coke-fueled police chase...but she did gift the world with the cinematic brilliance that was "The Parent Trap," so let's call it a wash. Feel free to load up on sketchy, easily abused prescription meds before you do your time, darling!")<br /><br />I was hoping to blog more recently after the surgery, but unfortunately there was no wireless internet in the hospital and I'm pretty sure that for the first few days, my blog posts would resemble the rants you hear on Hastings and Main in Vancouver. That means that I've got a lot of ground to cover. I'm going to break it down into smaller posts over the next few days, mostly since the letters are already kind of swimming on the page and my nap-per-paragraph ratio is roughly 1:1.<br /><br />So....Arley Version 3.0 Coles Notes Edition. The biggest headline is that it didn't go exactly as expected: They didn't attach the gluteus medius because there was too much scar tissue. They did, however, replace the socket and ball. And they went in through the back door (that's what she said) so the whole thing should be much more stable. After the surgery, Dr. SecondOpinion told me that the result "won't be one of those hip replacements where the person walks well." (Oh, you wanted one of those? You should have specified!) So far, however, the results feel a million times better than the first time around. My hip's not clunking around the way it was before and I'm walking pretty well considering that everything in the area is still like, "Dude, WTF?"<br /><br />I will blog more about the surgery when every sentence I write isn't being co-authored by a morphine derivative, but here are some teasers:<br /><br /><ul><li>Want to know what phrase you don't want to hear coming from a guy who's about to jam a big-ass needle into your spine? "Because I'm just learning, I'll be supervised by Dr. SoAndSo Here." And coming in a close second: "You're going to feel a poke....another poke....and another poke....Darn." (Perhaps the reason why it was so hard for me to get a Dilauded prescription is because of the track mark situation on my arms and back).<br /></li><li>Want to know a phrase that you should never have to say after receiving a spinal epidural? "Um....so.....am I supposed to, like, feel numb yet?"<br /></li><li>For the first few days, I dreamed of exploding cartoon hamsters, which struck me as such a stereotypical Oxycontin-fueled dream that I would amuse myself and wake up. You know you've spent too much time in academia when you are woken up by irony.</li><li>Day 1: I felt freaking fantastic. Little pain, no nausea. I was the Queen of Surgery, the Princess of the Post-Op, I was mentally reinacting that "king of the world' scene in Titanic. I was like, "Wait...you mean....something might actually go....right?"<br /></li><li>Day 2: Let's just say there was more puking than a bulimic convention in an ice-cream shop.</li><li>Let's also say that I will never again eat pea soup with noodles. And that for days after I was still finding specks of dried neon-green bile on my hospital bed...my desk lamp....my bedside table..... (Too much information? Too much information).<br /></li><li>The first day, my roommate was a guy who had broken both of his heels after his girlfriend threw $1800 of his money in $100 bills out the window and he jumped out the second-story window after it. (Suddenly, being single doesn't seem so bad). </li><li>For the rest of the stay, my roommate was an elderly Asian man who talked in his sleep in a mixture of Chinese and English, resulting in such gems as "You need 30% more birth control!'</li><li>I woke up this morning to my cat snuggling under my chin purring and sleepily licking my chin and was almost deliriously happy. Well, okay, the delirious part was probably the morphine, but still. Ah, cats: They love you and they never drop $1800 of your cash money out the window.</li></ul>Okay, I'm off to drift into a drug-fueled slumber. Post more soon!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1