On walks and weight

I think I read something about how fat people walk lightly, like balloons that are just barely held down by strings to the ground. I can't remember the author because I can't remember anything these days. [Thank you, chemical cocktail!]

But when you think about it, it's true. I mean, with all the extra weight us fatties carry around, imagine if we stomped the way skinnies do? At least in my case, I know it'd create quite the tremor. Even this guy I know, who's really obese has this particular dinosaur shuffle that, if heard from an apartment below, would not be heard at all, it's so light. I know that I don't walk heavily. Going up metal staircases, all you can hear is a slight *tap* from my beloved combat boots. As opposed to the ginormous clatter whenever a lighter person walks on it. It's a survival skill auto-learned by the fat; men and women alike.

I've been told I saunter. I've been told I have all the physical mannerisms of a gay man when not performing. I've also been accused of "walking sexily". The hilarious bit is, get this, that said sexy *swish* or *sway* (sexy or effeminate or gay-mannish, whatever) is produced by one of my legs being significantly longer than the other from a nasty volleyball-related incident in eighth grade.

I have mentioned my disdain for sports. Well, they're mandatory to pass P.E. in my school. And in eight grade, P.E. was mandatory. So I had to pick, and the very first days I picked volleyball (later I switched to basketball, since there were no girls in it, forcing the teacher to make the team unisex, which is taboo for some reason, and I've always had the iconoclastic impulses you know and love). I mostly sat on the benches while the other girls played, since there is no sport in the world I loathe as deeply as that goddamn fucking volleying of balls. And that, my friends, is what made the fear of de-pointing such a big one: the P.E. teachers called me out on my non-playing status, and threatened to flunk me if I didn't play soon. And as we all know, there's no making up a P.E. class. You flunk it, you flunk eighth grade. At least in my school.

So one day, I actually played. And while jumping for the ball, I slipped (my trusty combat boots were not allowed, so I had to defer to my beloved-but-not-trusty pair of worn Converse hi-tops) and fell HARD on my right knee. When I got up, I found myself unable to put weight on it. And it looked funny. Not ha-ha funny, but grotesquely-angled funny. So I begged for a time-out. Mr. J., the friendly neighborhood P.E. coach No. 1 gave me the stinkeye and only five minutes to "walk it off". So as I sat down on the bench, rolled up my sweats and stared at my now deformed (dislocated, actually) right leg, I knew what had to be done. I will now refer to myself in the third person.

• Miss Creature looks at the knee. She looks at the bench.
  
• Miss Creature sees that the bench, instead of two separate "feet" going into the ground, has one upside down u-shaped piece of metal.
  
• Miss Creature hooks the damaged foot around said piece, rendering the leg immobile if you push it to the right.
  
• Miss Creature bites down hard, as she greatly dislikes: not so much being called a wuss, but that people assume she is from the get-go, because of the secondary sex characteristics that define her as a part of the sex class.
  
• Miss Creature grabs knee with every one of her fetus fingers, and pushes it to the right.
  
• Miss Creature stifles approximately 10,692,4394 screams.
  
• Miss Creature observes that the leg, apart from throbbing like a mad octopus, seems to be fine. She limps back to the court. She goes back to playing volleyball.
  

And what happened, as I learned a few months and several tests and visits to the orthopedist's later, is that I fell so hard that some bone in my knee shattered. Just a little. Enough for some tiny splinters to jam into my ligaments, causing lack of development (though I only ever developed an inch or so since then), internal bleeding, and sharp stabb-y pains from time to time. Mostly cold weather, I snarl. Like when it rains. Like right now. ^_^ [Blame the meds, people. I would never use anime-ish, keyboard smileys if normal. Just lots of hyphenates and commas.]

So whenever some random fucktard accuses me of being a hypocrite because of, among other things my "sexy walk", I merely say "My right leg never grew, ya dumbfuck." And if the situation allows it, "Up yours."

Oh, and speaking of walks, you know whose I really love?

Bjork's. Not her walk-walk, I've never seen it; but I love how when she's performing, she advances making these totally agressive hand movements while walking forward. This while belting, stabbing the generational wisdom passed from Mariah impersonator to Mariah impersonator of standing making passive hurt faces, or leaning passively back while belting unhealthily high notes.



See what I mean?