Mary Lou Retton, Kerri Strug? Amateurs!

Here is how flexible I am. This afternoon I had my back pretty much flat against the closed toilet lid. My legs were splayed out in front of me, my sock-covered feet reaching the tiled floor beyond the throw rug in front of the toilet. My two arms held me in this position, hands locked around two grab bars.

I honestly don't think it is getting harder to get up off the floor. I had no problem during an early fall last week. I have just had two times where it was a real struggle; both times I was sweaty and out-of-breath when I regained my seat.

Is this what they mean by floor exercises?

ZZ Top: Artists of adaption

When I was 14, I bought ZZ Top's "Afterburner."

It was not that great an album: no "Legs," no "Sharp-Dressed Man." But
one of its tacky little tunes pops into my head on a regular basis these days: "Velcro Fly."

Well, it feels so right when you squeezed it tight,
when you reach the end do it over again.
I say yeah yeah.
I say yeah yeah.
There ain't never a catch, all you got to do is snatch,
do the velcro fly,
do the velcro fly.

The bearded boys no doubt had something tawdry in mind when they sang that. I'm not thinking cheap thrills, though; I am thinking about pajama pants and modesty.

I can't do the button fly on my pj bottom. Well, that's not entirely true. I could do it, but would never get it undone when I needed to use the bathroom.

I just leave the fly open and trust my wheelchair seatbelt to prevent any exposure. I also figure: Who the heck is going to stare at my crotch?

If I had a velcro fly, though, I could do and undo my fly to my heart's content. Or my bladder's.

Playboy is no passion play

One of my nephews told me a few years ago that he wanted to see Mel Gibson's "Passion of the Christ" because of the violence. I told him this was a pretty bad reason. It seems a little like telling your mom you only read Playboy for the pictures of naked women. Either way, you're just picking out what someone else will find objectionable.

I never saw the movie, but I like the passion story. The movie seemed too violent, even though the meanness is sort of what attracts me to the story. I know that we as Catholics are supposed to feel energized and revitalized by Easter and the resurrection, the triumph over sin and death, blah blah blah.

That stuff really just makes me sad. God can come back from the dead but can't heal me? God can triumph over untold numbers of sins but can't triumph over Freidriech's ataxia? Won't seems like the real word.

That's not for me. I am a Good Friday Catholic. I don't know if there are any others out there who get some happiness from Good Friday. Not because Jesus dies and evil seemingly wins. Don't worry, Mom, I am not that far gone.

Happy is too strong a word, I guess. I am relieved that some part of the Trinity knows exactly what it feels like to be human and to hurt.

Maybe Jesus didn't smack his knee on the tiled bathroom floor when he was standing to pull up his pants, but he did fall. Our situations differ much more than that, but I know that he felt pain, fear, anger, abandonment by his God and his friends. And I also realize that I am being a bit of a drama queen by comparing my situation to Jesus'.

But that is why I still have faith in God. Not because Jesus rose from the dead, not because he forgives sin, but because Jesus knows what it feels like to be forsaken.

I can be an idiot if I want

I just got back from a quick walk with Claren. As is usual when there is little traffic, I stayed on the road for a short stretch. It is a lot smoother than the sidewalk, and there is a turn lane the entire stretch so I just stop on the side if a car comes.

I was halfway down the short stretch when this woman on the sidewalk with two wiener dogs starts calling to me. Claren was awful excited by the wiener dogs, so I didn't really want to stop but the woman kept talking.

Finally, I got close enough. "Are you stuck in the street," she asked. I told her no, it was just smoother. Then she added: "You know you're going against traffic?"

I bit back the answer I wanted to give: "No f----ing way!" and just said yeah. She said OK, sorry and went on her way.

I know she was trying to help but just because I am in a wheelchair does not make me a moron. If I want to disobey traffic rules and tempt death, I totally do not need some do-gooder coming along and making me feel guilty.

I've fallen and can't get up, sort of

A little tip from me to you. The first time you choose to get out of your new wheelchair and on to the floor, you probably should not do it in your condo all alone. Your new wheelchair might have no handholds to reach. Your feet might slide on the floor. You might get so tired trying to get back in your chair that you finally break down and call your parents to come help you up. Then you might make one last effort that succeeds so you have to call your parents to tell them to turn around and go home.

Holy crap, that would really suck.