And the big deal about all this is...?

Last night, I set my alarm clock for early this morning and when it rang, hauled myself out of bed.

I had a nice-ish outfit waiting, black trousers, black shoes, a black sweater, conservative earrings. Dressed myself, put on some makeup, stuffed my windbreaker with the stuff I would normally carry in my purse and had a momentary panic when I couldn't find my car keys. I found a spare and will look later for the first set.

In the car, I put both forearm crutches and by the time I parked near the train station, had already decided I would go with one crutch. Surprisingly, it did help with my feet.

Previous experience has taught me that a physical signal like this can be valuable. I had surgery about ten years ago and although my feet were not involved in the surgery, I used a cane when I was outside. This showed people that they would need to go around me if they wanted to go faster because I was already going as fast as I could.

I took my time getting my ticket and a cup of coffee at the station and took a seat on a bench. By the way, I have already noted how very inaccessible this place is for a wheeler. It might be okay if you have a wheelie placard, but it will involve a ride in a stinky-piss elevator. I took the escalator to the platform and sat on the bench closest to the door.

Took the train into the city and walked across the street to the bus. There was a wheeler woman there and her friend waiting to get on the bus. The driver lowered the ramp, WW went up and I gratefully followed.

During the trip to the museum, the driver kept double checking where WW and Friend were going - in Spanish. "Si, si," they kept saying in Spanish. "We're going to this museum."

"And me too," I added in Spanish. WW and Friend laughed. When we were left out, the bus driver kept telling us to go to the east, but I knew we needed to go west and he had dropped us two blocks north of the ground floor entrance.

I borrowed a wheelchair, put my crutch in coat check, and with WW & Friend, took the elevator to the Impressionist paintings.

I'm sure I'll get a better report from my body tomorrow, but right now, I am very, very, very grateful that I used the wheelchair. My feet don't hurt. At all. My shoulders are a little sore, but if I hadn't had to walk twenty blocks south, they wouldn't. (The bus route was closed due to a parade.)

This is it, overall: I was not turned on. I was not all jazzed. I was relieved. Relieved, do you hear me? Relieved. It was so good not to have to worry about my feet giving out on me. I had a very small, specific agenda. I wanted to see the Impressionist paintings at the museum and I did. Painlessly.

I got to spend a lot of time with the paintings I wanted to see. I read the informative little plaques next to the paintings. I got to study the brush strokes in a Van Gogh iris. I saw the mosaic-like tiny rectangles of color in Paul Signac's "View of the Port of Versailles".

Later in the museum cafe, I had lunch with a glass of wine - just one - that had me dangerously close to an "I love you, man" moment while watching the skaters and bikers zoom through Central Park.

When I knew I was saturated with beauty for one day (likely a year or two, unfortunately), I returned to the cloak room, reclaimed my crutch, returned the wheelchair and went on my way.

I don't know what the big deal was about all this in my mind. Using a wheelchair proved to be a wonderfully useful thing that saved me a great deal of discomfort and allowed me to enjoy my museum experience far more than I would have otherwise.