Leg Foo Young

Help me out here, 'cause I am in a bit of a quandary. I have come to terms with a lot of the changes in my life since the accident. I am okay with the decreased mobility, the pain, and the weird looks from kids. I am okay with the fact that it takes me twice as long to get dressed, and I can't fit into a booth at the restauarant. And I thought I was okay with the fact that I am no longer what you might call a physically stunning specimen. I mean, how many guys are complete enough not to be turned off by the sight of my huge and jagged scars, let alone by Stumpy?

So there I am at a party tonight, spinning music, hiding behind the table because Peggy's acting irritable and I can't really stand up. So this amazing guy, with whom I have only a passing acquaintance, works his way behind the table--thirty feet away from the dance floor--and starts dancing next to me. I thought he just wanted to say hi, but instead he says, "I just wanted to dance by you. You seemed lonely."

Well, if I was a rational man, I would have taken that as an opportunity to let my charm and sparkle out, right? Instead, irrational man that I am, I freak out. I vault over the table and say, "You're right, I should go dance!" and proceed to cut a rug on my already painfully chafed stump. What, was I afraid the guy had leprosy? What possessed me to run away from a romantic prospect so instinctively and so violently? Imagine me leaping over the table on rebellious Peggy and almost re-maiming myself to avoid talking to him. And not because he was unattractive. Oooooh no. Beautiful throughout.

Clearly, I am not as okay with my disfigurement as I had thought.