Pixie Dust Redemption

We all have our parental issues and I’ve probably overshared on here about my issues with my mom. In case you’ve missed it, the short version is her Jesus doesn’t so much like the fact that her womb produced homosexual offspring. Having recently been around nearly all of her family at the funeral of her mother, my amazing grandmother, I’ve even confirmed that the gay runs on her side. She also refuses to see the humor in that, believing that my “lifestyle” is somehow of my own choosing.


During our initial conversations after my coming out, she searched for answers as to how I could have arrived at the conclusion that I’m gay. She tried to blame teachers, my psychotic father, my liberal Baptist college, my semester abroad or some of my friends. After none of those quite panned out, I finally tried to convince her that it was actually Disney’s fault. Yep, that’s right; blame the mouse. Ok, not so much the mouse, but Tinkerbell. She’s the one that done it.

You see, Tinkerbell and I had an altercation once. I was on a band trip to DisneyWorld when I was 14. The trip was really fraught with disaster after calamity. Just prior to the trip I dislocated my knee cap, which left me trying to hobble around Disney and Universal on crutches. Once we landed, the first hurricane of the season blew in and once we got back home, our plane caught on fire. And while all of these things certainly helped to shape my fairly overall poor impression of Florida, I think it was my run-in with Tinkerbell that’s left the longest lasting mark.

Prior to arriving at the Magic Kingdom we were given instructions to meet beside the castle at the end of the day so we could be counted and herded back on the bus. A friend and I had spent the day together and being the good nerds we were (shout out to all the band AND academic team kids) we showed up early. However, after waiting a few minutes no one else from our group was in sight. After a few more minutes passed, the park was about to start the closing fireworks and still none of our group was anywhere to be found.

If you’ve been to DisneyWorld, you know that part of the daily closing ceremony is for a metallic, robotic Tinkerbell to fly out of the castle. She flits about the park sprinkling pixie dust and then flies back into the castle just in time for the fireworks to start. Prior to this occasion, I had never been to DisneyWorld and wasn’t familiar with my fairy friend or her usual route. So, in an attempt to find some of our group, I decided I would stand on a bench (bum knee and all) and see if I could see over the crowd to find people. It was about the time that I stood up completely and the crowd came into focus that I felt it. WHOMP!!! I felt a hard thud against the side of my head. I turned to see what had just attacked me and then felt it again. WHOMP!!! This time the impact was right in the center of my forehead. I had the good sense to duck before round three started, realizing that each impact was propelling my forward bound assailant backwards. I then looked up to see Tinkerbell flying off and realized I was covered in her sparkly pixie dust.

Yes, kids. I was attacked by a metal (cuz yes, Miss Tinkerbell packs a punch), robotic Tinkerbell as she flew on fishing wire in The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s at this moment that I like to imagine I was confirmed as a gay. Sort of a christening, if you will. As you might imagine, my mom isn’t convinced by this explanation either.

However, a couple of times in the past few months she seems to be making a new kind of peace with me. She wanted me to bring my boyfriend to the funeral and was upset with me when I didn’t. She even talked to me about wanting to spend more time with him and get to know him. Just last night, she talked to me about not wanting to upset what family we have now that the great glue that held us together has passed away.

It’s with all of this in mind that I decided to take my mom to DisneyWorld for her 60th birthday next month. She’s never flown, been to Florida or seen the ocean, so I’m packing lots of firsts into one weekend. But, I’m hoping to take a moment somewhere near the scene of the crime to grab my mom’s hand and press the reset button. Maybe we can get a little sprinkling of pixie dust, take a breath of Florida air and let the past fall away.

I don’t have any delusion that she’s going to join PFLAG, but I do hope that our weekend together will give us a chance to just be mom and son for once without all of the other baggage. Then, we can start from there. Since I didn’t sue the mouse over my head injury and emotional distress, I think he at least owes me that much.

Verdict

So, we all recall that I sustained injury while voguing, yes?

After two weeks, it wasn't healing, so I went to see the doctor. X-rays were taken and all appeared well. However, my knee was still swollen and causing me a good bit of pain. So, I was referred to the orthopedic specialist. I saw him on Tuesday.

It turns out that I've been living with jacked up knees for a long time. While this isn't a revelation, I didn't quite know how bad it was. The short version is that the "soft tissue" in my knees have decided to develop such that they are pulling my kneecaps out. So, I just turn a bit and BAM, they dislocate. On top of that, I'm developing arthritis and I have lovely little bits of bone grinding off as I move my knee. You can see them in the x-rays the ortho guy took. It's like a snowglobe in my knee.

This of course has a few ramifications. First off, that goal of running a 5k near my 30th birthday...not gonna happen. It's probably all for the best that I got pissed off with running when a dog bit me and haven't been doing much of it lately. I can't imagine dislocating a kneecap while running down Old Vine. (I literally cringed while typing that).

It also means that a knee surgery is likely in my future. The doctor wants to cut me open, pull the soft tissue back where it's supposed to be and then hopefully cure my little dislocation problem. He seems to think this will fix the everything. I'm dubious. I read medical records from this particular facility all the time for work and it seems like they are kind of surgery happy. So, I'm pondering getting a second opinion.

For now, I'm opting for physical therapy. The doc says that they are going to "train me like Lance Armstrong for the Tour de France" to build up my leg muscles. The boyfriend says I'm getting my insurance to pay for a personal trainer. I have these great visions of out of shape, asthmatic me suddenly riding through the French countryside and grabbing a baguette from a bystander as I race through France on my little bike, flipping the bird to the Belgian team as I whizz past with my new, improved, non-dislocating knees.

In truth, I'll probably be lucky to make it through therapy without having to suck on my inhaler like a Bel-Ami fluffer. Though, I'm resolving to look at this positively. I'm getting in better shape before I turn 30, not that I'm 30 and falling apart. I mean, it's because of Madonna that I'm realizing how jacked up my knees are and she's pretty much the pinnacle of being old and fit, right? Right?