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trash talking my nerd injury

This is what I look like with my hands in wrist-stabilizing splints:

This is the unsympathetic trash-talking I got from TD:

"You look like Edward Scissorhands...but less cool."

(upon discussing the ADA, my support of employer accommodation of disability, what is the statutory definition of a disability as some condition that substantially limits major life activities, and how carpal tunnel doesn't really count, or at least does not necessarily count):

"You should own your gimpitude. You know, like reclaim the word 'gimp.' Big gimpin'."

(in response to my nerd gloves):

"They're like bound feet for the modern age. Finally, you also claim your heritage."

(in response to my delicious spaghetti and meatballs, yes, made with cripply hands).

"Pretty good cooking....for a cripple."

Lest you take serious offense, reader, TD is progressive and believes in equal protection laws, has been really supportive, and is utterly sympathetic. He has been on my case to get treatment, and has been carrying things for me and opening jars for me. I feel vaguely pre-feminist, writing that. But really, they should make pop tops for everything.

I'm breaking out my big blue thing of a wrist support out at school to type in relative comfort, and wearing supportive gloves in public too. In elementary school, a more insecure Belle would have been mortified and too scared of judgment and may have suffered in pain. But by junior high school I gave up on being cool. Plus, at this level of education, everyone immediately recognizes that I have a repetitive stress injury and react sympathetically. They know the occupational hazards of our profession, the main two being bloviation and an RSI. There but for the grace of $300 in ergonomic tools go they. Plus, I am too old to care about this aspect of my external appearance, even when I sit with the undergrads who stare blankly at my wrists and big blue gel stick. Besides, I was dressed really nicely today in a dove gray dress, navy cardigan, tights, tall brown boots, brown trench, and purple-gray scarf. In case you're wondering.

Just in case though, here are alternate, non-nerdy reasons for my braces. Choose your favorite answer:

a). I am a falconer, but my falcon cannot hear me.
b). I am Michael Jackson, and it don't matter if you're black or white (no seriously, check out the gloves).
c). I am a female archer from the 1950s ready for some synchronized archery.
d). I am desperately seeking Susan.
e). I am going to beat the crap out of you in our next match.
f). I am a competitive bowler, and I bowl alone.

I also have a two inch scar on my abdomen from an appendectomy. I keep wondering if anyone will believe it if I tell them that it's from a bar fight, when this crazy bitch broke a beer bottle on the counter and sliced me and stole my money and I'm fucking lucky she didn't take my kidney, too.

Full post as published by Law and Letters on January 29, 2009 (boomark / email).