Last Christmas, my friend gave me an electric, Barbie-pink dress with a sexy side cutout at the midsection from Zara. It was stunning and super chic. But I thought to myself, there’s no way I could wear that — I didn’t have a flat stomach, especially in a seated position.
It would look so inappropriate on the “adorable” wheelchair girl who was desperate for grays and blacks so she could blend into the background. But I tried it on just for fun and looked in my full-size mirror. And there I saw it: a tiny, well-defined ab muscle peeking out of the cutout in my dress, while still sitting in my wheelchair.
It wasn’t an easy beauty like a sparkling diamond ring or a burning sunset at dusk. It was less obvious, a “difficult beauty,” as disabled author Chloé Cooper Jones describes it in her memoir, “Easy Beauty” — it’s a beauty that takes time and patience to appreciate. Ever since my at 23, I hadn’t exactly enjoyed seeing the imposter with a crooked smile staring back at me in the mirror, so I’d avoided looking.
Based on how people glared at, dismissed or just flat out ignored me, I didn’t think I was missing out on anything. So, I was shocked and a bit exhilarated at the sight because I looked ..
. not bad. Certainly not like I used to — I could see the scars left by my stroke from head to toe: swollen ankles, asymmetrical features, fisted hands.
But it wasn’t bad. Never once in my life had I had anything resembling abs and my smile didn’t eve.