Dear Saint Valentine:
I hope this letter finds
you well. I understand you were martyred in the second century A.D., though. So,
depending on whose version of the afterlife is accurate, you might be doing really
well. Or not.
Anyway, I’m writing to
you to ask for a little good mojo. Not for me, really. But for all of my
brothers and sisters in mobility-impairment cripdom. You know, us folks down
here who limp, use canes and walkers or who like me, roll from point A to point
B. Disabled people who struggle to get around and so are very obviously disabled.
I need your help in
particular because, well, this whole mating game thing can be kinda tricky. First
impressions are big. If you throw in a funny walk or a pair of crutches or –
heaven forbid -- a wheelchair, many folks won’t see you as top shelf dating
material.
It doesn’t help that a
lot of non-crips – who are otherwise nice, bright people – buy into millennia-old
stereotypes. Maybe you know the one that says we’re drooling, sex-starved perverts.
Nobody dates us, because we’re crips, duh! So without a romantic outlet, we
become like overly-wound watch springs ready to snap any second. And who wants
to date someone who can’t wait for sex until after dinner at Red Lobster and a
predictable rom-com starring Kate Hudson or Katherine Heigl?
Other non-crips will take
issue with me. They’ll say “No, not me! I know crips aren’t sex-starved pervs.”
Of course not. Instead, they’re certain that, when it comes to carnal pleasures,
crips are utterly uninterested. We’re angelic inspirations in a semi-arrested
state of development. We sit round weaving potholders, resigned to our chaste,
asexual existences. And who wants to date someone unwilling to put down a
potholder and jump buck-naked into the Jacuzzi?
Please don’t disregard my
concerns simply because I’ve been off the dating market for more than a quarter
century. Yes, it’s true that when I got married, Milli Vanilli had yet to be discredited.
But I can remember back to my early college days before I met my husband. I
lived in the only girls’ dorm on campus that was accessible to female wheelers.
Boys would sometimes
start randomly dialing dorm phone numbers, hoping to get an anonymous
attractive girl to talk to them. If they found out you lived on first floor
Prentice, though, they hung up with lightning speed, since it was widely known
across campus as the location of the female gimp ghetto.
No “let’s meet for beers”
or “how about we go to the midnight screening of Eraserhead?” No siree.
So, St. Val, can you find
it in your heart to throw a little love toward crips who may be struggling to
find Mr. or Mrs. Right?
It’d be most appreciated.
No comments:
Post a Comment