This Cherry Is Definitely Popped

Despite my one-crutch / wheeling trip to NYC this spring, I still didn't consider myself "out" as a pretender. After all, it was only for a morning, it was deliberately someplace where chances were extremely unlikely I would run into anyone I know. I even took a specific train line into the city to avoid all chances of running into someone.

But now, the cherry is definitely popped. And I don't know why this time seems so different and...so profound in its way. But that's how I know I'm not a virgin anymore.

This week, I went to a summer town on the Atlantic beaches. The chances of running into anyone weren't important. I chose the particular place because I was familiar with it. And the weather lately has been gorgeous.

All the disabled parking spaces were taken up. (I still have a temp permit through the end of this year.) I got my forearm crutches out of the backseat and stood up.

The weirdest thing happened. My body instantly believed that my legs wouldn't hold me up. My shoulders believed it. My legs believed it. I said, "Whoa!"

And then I set about learning a number of things you may already know. Maybe this is why I consider myself to no longer be an innocent.

I learned that what's usually a very easy walk for me unaided can turn into a grueling fifteen minutes, walking what I would normally cover in maybe three minutes.

I learned that the pseudo money belt I had on was a perfect thing to carry. A light backpack would have been good, too.

I learned that my zest to walk to the end of the boardwalk to the inlet went away pretty quickly. All told, I must have covered a whopping two hundred yards.

It didn't take long on that sunny day to wish I had a set of fingerless gloves. As unladylike as it sounds, my hands sweat.

Interestingly, I found myself pushed into getting healthy food for myself. All of the regular places along the boardwalk didn't have any place to sit. Or if they did, it was of the "you order it, you bus your own table" variety. I wasn't going to ask someone to schlep my stuff over for me and I wasn't going to let a slice of primo Jersey pie slide off the paper plate as I tried to carry it to my table.

I ended up going into a restaurant, to the second floor where there was shade and an ocean view. Yes, there was an elevator at the back of the restaurant. When I went up to the guy who was doing the seating, he looked perplexed. And then he started making kindly-meant suggestions.

"You know," he said, "I used to travel for a living and I always used to sit at a table. But then I started to sit at the bar. No one bothers you. No one looks at you because you're alone."

I laughed. I've been mostly alone for the past ten years. One of the quickest things I forced myself to get over was feeling odd when dining out.

And suddenly, I said, "I'm sorry. I need a chair. I can't sit on bar stools."

His face dropped.

And I have no idea where that come from. But there it was.

He patted me on the shoulder. "Sure, sure," he said. "I understand."

I highly doubt it, I thought, as I made my way over to the table. The table that faced a brick wall.

"Here," he said. "You're in the shade."

But there were other tables in the shade that didn't have me with my face to a brick wall. Hm.

When the time came for me to order, I uncharacteristically ordered a salad. Hey, I thought to myself, if I end up hauling this body around on my arms, it would do well if there were a lot less of it.

A couple was seated behind me. They moved. I don't know why.

The salad (delicioso) came out, but it was on a weird glass plate that spun around every time I tried to take a bite. Croutons were flying everywhere. And I realized my left hand was shaking so badly, I could barely hold the fork.

Doing something wrong in the crutching technique, I thought. Made a note of it.

Meanwhile, I waved down the waitress. "Could you put this on a bigger plate, please? I'm just getting it all over the place."

"I'll go get - " she said and I stopped her.

"I'm sorry. Could you please put it on the bigger plate?" I sat on my hands.

She came back with the salad on the bigger plate.

And finally, I was able to relax, enjoy the seaside atmosphere, the warmth of the sun, the confusion of gulls. I watched kids throwing a football on the sand and watched one kid plant face first into the sand. Ouch. But he got up, found the ball and tossed it back.

There were about ten perfect minutes there. It was lovely.

I tipped the waitress well, paid my bill, stopped into the amazingly accessible ladies' room, then got in the elevator going downstairs.

Once within range of the parking lot, I stood in line at the funnel cake stand. I asked if they could put the cake in a bag for me and they said sure.

I went to one of the benches facing the sea and carefully ate the greasy, sweet fried dough. Normally, I'd go for the whole thing, but again, I didn't want any more. Again, I thought of hauling this old body around.

I hoofed it back to my car and as I opened the door, I thought, this is over. I have to tell my legs to work now.

I found them reluctant to go along with the scheme. I put my crutches in the front passenger seat while holding onto the door frame.

How odd it was to pull my feet in, to position them on the floor mat and tell myself that they not only worked now, they had to work.

That's not right, I thought. There's something very wrong about it.

When I got home and stepped into my house, the same thing occurred.

This outing as a pretender - which felt like very real and not a bit like pretending anything - has happened and there's no un-happening it. And I'm glad.