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We All Have Our Limits
And my disability makes shopping for pants one of mine
Having recently hurtled past another birthday at what feels like breakneck speed, I continue on my path of becoming firmly set in my ways. I know what I like (eating), as well as what I don’t like (people). I’ve grown increasingly content with my lot and exceedingly comfortable with my habits.
Up until a few days ago, I’d assumed that, as someone rooted firmly in my mid-thirties, I had a pretty firm grasp on both my abilities and my limitations. I’m not talking about skills I’ve yet to acquire, there are millions of those — learning Swahili, flying an aircraft, being able to iron, to name just a few.
I’m talking instead about things that my particular impairment makes it impossible, or at least impractical, to do. At this point, I should clarify that I’ve never been one of those people who subscribes to that whole “You can achieve anything if you want to!” hogwash, primarily because it just isn’t true. Because I have neither hands nor feet, there will always be things I can’t do that require those particular body parts. I will never be a classical harpist, for example, nor will I ever perfect the subtle art of shadow puppetry. But I am at peace with this, because, on the other hand, I can easily fit into overhead storage bins, and also use my prosthetics to kick…
