A crisis of conscience
Dear well-meaning door-holders,
I know we all find my cane awkward. I'm sure it would be much better for everyone if my condition did not often necessitate my use of such a device. It really is incredible that a young-looking lady such as myself might need such a thing, isn't it? Especially since The Powers That Be, with their grand sense of humour, decided to grant me such an imposing height and a frame that is, well, not exactly reed-like.
But consider this, well-meaning door-holders. When your oh-so-predictible demeanor cycle of shock, stare, embarrassment, guilt (and no, I am not using The Stick to make you feel guilty, please!) finally comes around to "awkwardly trying to help", you are probably already too late to help with the door. It is more likely that you are blocking the door while you belatedly try to figure out how best to assuage your guilt for staring by engaging in a chivalrous gesture.
Let's picture this for a moment. If your position is similar to that of most people, you will now walk halfway through the door, and reach back to hold it part-open for me. And now we come to the crux of the matter. I am large. And I am also left-handed, and usually carrying a sizable backpack full of collegiate essentials. And of course, The Stick. You can tell that I am left-handed because my left hand is the one that is free and reaching for the door, which you have so obligingly opened just far enough that I have to overbalance myself to grasp. This means that The Stick is on my right. Now, what would you imagine is the best way for me to get through this door, given that it is almost certainly insufficiently open for me to enter without hanging up on my backpack or The Stick? I am not so very clumsy, though perhaps I am not as graceful as you. But when I twist around to the right, left hand reaching vainly for the door, and then attempt to brace the doorframe on my shoulder as I twist back to the left, wrestling The Stick through the gap between my body and the frame, I do appear so. Especially since this little dance often as not makes you stumble a bit as well, since you clearly did not expect that I would find shimmying through the gap you've so generously allowed me to be so complicated. As you stumble, or simply let go, often the door gives a little bounce from your outstretched arm, dislodging it from my shoulder and encouraging it to give me, my Stick, and the side of my backpack a friendly smack as I lurch onward. If I am particularly fortunate, I will find that some strap of my backpack has caught on the door during this maneuver , and I will wriggle madly in my attempts to dislodge it. As my left hand reaches for the doorframe to steady myself, for I would not wish to do you an injury, o gentle soul, by instigating a collision, I usually have enough energy to arch my back into the assaulting door, bouncing it back again and saving my fingers from being crushed. Usually. But not always, as the marks on my fingernails can attest. Of course, well-meaning door-holder, you cannot see the other bruises, whose number I may very well have just increased in our awkward dance.
I suspect from your likely expression, well-meaning door-holder, that you may be dismayed by my unexpectedly great size and clumsiness. Please believe me when I assure you that these things dismay me as well, as you graciously accept my well-rehearsed but no less sincere apologies for the tangle. I bear you no particular ill will, after all... you are simply a victim of your own ignorance. But the next time you absently attempt to be helpful, please try to understand that you are helping your own conscience, not me.
I know we all find my cane awkward. I'm sure it would be much better for everyone if my condition did not often necessitate my use of such a device. It really is incredible that a young-looking lady such as myself might need such a thing, isn't it? Especially since The Powers That Be, with their grand sense of humour, decided to grant me such an imposing height and a frame that is, well, not exactly reed-like.
But consider this, well-meaning door-holders. When your oh-so-predictible demeanor cycle of shock, stare, embarrassment, guilt (and no, I am not using The Stick to make you feel guilty, please!) finally comes around to "awkwardly trying to help", you are probably already too late to help with the door. It is more likely that you are blocking the door while you belatedly try to figure out how best to assuage your guilt for staring by engaging in a chivalrous gesture.
Let's picture this for a moment. If your position is similar to that of most people, you will now walk halfway through the door, and reach back to hold it part-open for me. And now we come to the crux of the matter. I am large. And I am also left-handed, and usually carrying a sizable backpack full of collegiate essentials. And of course, The Stick. You can tell that I am left-handed because my left hand is the one that is free and reaching for the door, which you have so obligingly opened just far enough that I have to overbalance myself to grasp. This means that The Stick is on my right. Now, what would you imagine is the best way for me to get through this door, given that it is almost certainly insufficiently open for me to enter without hanging up on my backpack or The Stick? I am not so very clumsy, though perhaps I am not as graceful as you. But when I twist around to the right, left hand reaching vainly for the door, and then attempt to brace the doorframe on my shoulder as I twist back to the left, wrestling The Stick through the gap between my body and the frame, I do appear so. Especially since this little dance often as not makes you stumble a bit as well, since you clearly did not expect that I would find shimmying through the gap you've so generously allowed me to be so complicated. As you stumble, or simply let go, often the door gives a little bounce from your outstretched arm, dislodging it from my shoulder and encouraging it to give me, my Stick, and the side of my backpack a friendly smack as I lurch onward. If I am particularly fortunate, I will find that some strap of my backpack has caught on the door during this maneuver , and I will wriggle madly in my attempts to dislodge it. As my left hand reaches for the doorframe to steady myself, for I would not wish to do you an injury, o gentle soul, by instigating a collision, I usually have enough energy to arch my back into the assaulting door, bouncing it back again and saving my fingers from being crushed. Usually. But not always, as the marks on my fingernails can attest. Of course, well-meaning door-holder, you cannot see the other bruises, whose number I may very well have just increased in our awkward dance.
I suspect from your likely expression, well-meaning door-holder, that you may be dismayed by my unexpectedly great size and clumsiness. Please believe me when I assure you that these things dismay me as well, as you graciously accept my well-rehearsed but no less sincere apologies for the tangle. I bear you no particular ill will, after all... you are simply a victim of your own ignorance. But the next time you absently attempt to be helpful, please try to understand that you are helping your own conscience, not me.