I Am The Definition of Awkward

My life is very awkward. I am very awkward.

But before I explain further, let me ask you a question. Have you ever watched, seething with jealousy, as some old dude careens down the sidewalk on a motor powered wheelchair? Have you ever fought the urge to shove an old woman off one of those motor scooters are Target, because she's zooming around and not only getting her purchases faster, but also running over small children (without getting in trouble) in the meantime? Have you ever wanted to pick up a child out of a wheelchair and throw them to the curb, then steal it because your legs are tired, and damnit you just want to get home faster?

Well, of course you have. But the point is, once you have to actually get in a wheelchair, you suddenly can't wait to scramble out of it and run away as fast as humanly possible.

The first time I ever had to stick my surprisingly round ass in a wheelchair of any sort (besides after a surgery, or after twisting an ankle and having to be carted from the waiting room into the ER or something) was on a trip to Target. I'd been having a bad day pain wise, and once I got into the store, I realized there was no way in hell I'd be able to walk around for more than, oh, .005 seconds. Erin had to procure a motor scooter for me, which caused quite a few raised eyebrows, as I don't particularly look like I need a motor vehicle for movement purposes.

Of course it didn't help matters much that the only scooter left wasn't charged enough, so I had to inch around in the store, pissing everyone off around me because turtles and slugs and such kept speeding by me. Even the old people looked like marathon runners in comparison. And, to add insult to injury, the goddamn thing beeped like a fucking truck when I backed up. It seemed to shout "fat ass needs you out of the damn way to back up!" with every movement. It was mortifying.

I hadn't had to use a wheelchair in public since then, until this past week. My father and I realized that there was no way in hell I could get around in the airport with one, as it'd been something of a struggle to walk from my bed to my bathroom. We told the Jet Blue staff that I'd just had surgery (a cleaner, less embarrassing way to explain the situation, as people look at you funny when you say "oh hey, an ovarian cyst ruptured all over my pelvis, and I bled all over my abdomen - can you push my fat ass around? Thanks!") and needed a chair, so some poor sap got stuck wheeling me around Dulles.

And, if you didn't know, they just moved the Jet Blue terminal, so I got to take a wild ride on the shuttle, and be pushed even further around. I kept my sunglasses on and hid my face, and my father was protectively hovering around me, so some people got really curious and were trying to see if I was... well, probably not famous, I'd need a bigger entourage, but people were seriously craning their necks and deliberately walking by.

I suppose at least that cheered me up a little. I should've pulled the "Yeah, I'm totally Lindsay Lohan, I'm just not wearing make up - and I forgot to go get a touch up on my tan" card. That might've worked.


Whatever, close enough.

The way back was way more awkward, however, because my dad wasn't flying with me, so I just looked like an oversized bug, dressed all in black with my sunglasses on, huddled in a wheelchair pushed by a large woman who didn't speak any English, all on my own. I think everyone just thought I was a freak.

When I'm in pain and I'm walking, I tend to favor my left leg and put the weight on it, keeping the right leg slightly bent. I think it's because when the first cyst ruptured, it was on my right side, so the pain tends to be worse in that area. On the trip back to DC, everyone asked if I had just had knee surgery (since why else would a seemingly otherwise healthy 22-year-old be in a wheelchair?) so I just said yeah. It really is much easier than launching into my Reproductive Organ Mayhem Speech; say "knee surgery" and no one bats an eye (in fact people are very nice to you) but even start saying "uteru-" and people freak out.

Well, now that I'm back in DC, my adventures with wheeled modes of transportation aren't over. I have another week until I'm supposed to attempt walking to work (which is so strange, because when I'm healthy and fine, 6 or so blocks are nothing - but when I'm in pain, it may as well be an attempt to take a stroll to, oh, North Carolina) so I'm on cab patrol until then. Which means goodbye, $20 a day!

Crap, I knew I should've taken the other taxi

This morning - after sleeping a galling 14 hours last night - I stumbled out of bed and actually showered, dressed myself, and put on makeup. I figured I'd attempt looking human on my first day back to work in almost 2 weeks. I waddled out the front door of my building, and after freezing to the bone in just under 20 seconds (WHY is it so cold in DC?!) I hailed a cab and made my way to work. I paid the $10 freaking dollars (including tip) and was about to get out of the car, when the driver happily said, "Aw, are you pregnant?"

I suppose I should've expected this, as:

1. I took a taxi 6 blocks away.
2. I keep a hand over my stomach protectively in the car, because the uneven pavement/pot holes really freaking hurt
3. I'm puffy and retaining water and I looked slightly manic

But I was horrified. Especially because this isn't the first time I've been asked that question. And I don't just mean by a concerned gynecologist.

When I had surgery in June of '06 I had a laparoscopy, which entails having gas pumped into your stomach so that there's more space between organs, and it's easier for your doctor to get the tiny lasers and scissors in there (as a laparoscopy, for endometriosis at least, involves cutting out and burning away any scar or endometrial tissue that may be causing problems.) Unfortunately, you end up with a ballooned out stomach, which doesn't go away for about a week and a half or so. Which meant that 5 days after surgery, when I was up and mobile and going to summer classes at UMass Boston, I had a giant, pregnant-looking stomach. It didn't help that I always had one hand protectively over it, and the other supporting my aching back. I had the pregnant woman walk down, kids.

Mothers and women of all ages would come up to me, cooing and congratulating me. The only reason I didn't snap necks left and right was because they said my baby would be beautiful, just like me. Goddamn right any spawn of mine would be beautiful.

So, long story... long... I'm almost used to being asked if I'm happily impregnated. That doesn't mean I like it. I snarled something about uteri at the cab driver and dragged my sorry ass out of the cab, and proceeded to angrily waddle up to the front door of my building.

Only to find the building locked. After all, it is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so EVERY OTHER BUSINESS IN THE DISTRICT HAS THE DAY OFF.

Only 7 more stories to go!

I waited for half an hour in the bitterly freezing cold, all the while leaving multiple messages on my boss' office phone and cell phone. Someone finally came to the lobby door, and informed that that no, none of the offices were open, and I should go home. So I did.

An hour later (after spending a total of $20 on cabs so far), my boss calls. Oh yeah, hey, the office is open, I got delayed, um, come in. AWESOME. So I shell out another $10, cart my ass all the way back to work, and so far I've spent 2.5 hours doing absolutely nothing, other than taking 10 seconds out and booking a rental car.

It's dark, it's cold, and I think we're the only 2 people in the entire building. And our office is in a massive building. This can end in one of several ways:

Scenario 1: My boss turns into a homicidal maniac and chases me around with a chainsaw.
Outcome 1: I die. I can't run, and our doors don't lock.

Scenario 2: Zombies overrun the building, in search of fresh meat.
Outcome 2: I die. I can't run, and though we can look our door from the inside, it's glass. It'll give after one or two good attempts at getting in.

Scenario 3: A ghost appears - perhaps the ghost of someone who was messily murdered on a day much like today, in which no one was supposed to be in the office, so no one found their body for days.
Outcome 3a: I die. I can't run, and the ghost can move through walls and doors.
Outcome 3b: I pull a Ghost Whisperer, and help the ghost avenge their death.
- Outcome 3b(i): The murderer is my boss. I die too.
- Outcome 3b(ii): The murderer is my boss. I bring him to justice.
- Outcome 3b(iii): The murderer is not my boss. We both die.
-Outcome 3b(iv): The murderer is not my boss. We team up as a sleuthing duo, and bring the murderer to justice. We then quit our jobs and travel the country with Ghost Hunters, avenging all the pissed off spirits that died messily, without having their murderers brought to justice.

Short of my boss and I become the next Ghost Hunting Nancy Drew & Co. Team, I think I'm in for a bad day. Once it's finally 6pm, and I've spent another $10 getting home, I'm going to pour myself a big class of Absolut Vanilla, watch some Futurama, and cry myself to sleep. It doesn't get anymore glamorous than that.