Part I
Spring is a harsh season for me. There's the beautiful rebirth of nature, it's true. But there's also all that salt and sand used on slippery roads during winter accumulating on the side of the roads or boardwalks. Not to mention all the dog poop unpicked by dog owners during winter now reappearing with each new layer of snow melting away. It's an obstacle course out there. A constant duel between the wheelchair user and the forces of nature in an urban setting. I have to maintain constant vigilance to evade all the traps laid for me but the enemy is too well organised. You see, the puddles are out to get me. They have a mind of their own you know. They plot with each others. They wait patiently for me, treacherously hiding themselves in the shadows of curbs and parked cars. Oh yeah, the puddles are out to get me and each spring, they get me good. Each time I go out, my wheelchair is covered with a spotted leopard pattern of muddy stains.
That's a terrible torment for a selective clean freak like me (If you could have a look at my messy apartment, you would understand why I call myself a selective clean freak...). I can't stand being seen in public with a dirty wheelchair. It's hard to explain why. Any good web site about "Wheelchair Etiquette" would tell you many wheelchair users consider their wheelchair as an extension of their body, part of their personal space. To me, keeping my wheelchair clean and shiny feels like a part of my personal hygiene. It even ranks higher than wearing clean underwear or brushing my teeth on my list of priorities!
I wipe gush off my wheelchair daily but I keep the thorough cleaning job for sundays. It's part of my predictable routine. Sundays are scrub days. I get the sponges, washclothes and buckets of soapy water. Just like in all the eternal epics between the forces of good and evil, my wheelchair becomes a battlefield where the stains left by the armies of puddles are met by the armies of bubbles. Nothing is left untouched. All removeable parts are washed independantly. Every spoke of my sun rimmed wheels will be caressed and scrubbed with tender love and attention until its chrome can shine playfully when touched by the rays of the sun. The cushion will be dusted, washed and straighten so it is again fit to welcome my humble derriere. I'll also invest some time in basic maintenance, checking the brakes and tires' air pressure, doing any required adjustments. The whole process takes me an average of two hours. This is my routine, my meditation, my journey, my obsession.
A clean wheechair is a work of art. Sometimes maybe even a masterpiece. With one, I can face the world holding my head up high, gliding silently in the middle of crowds, almost floating, unnoticed until my clean wheelchair reveals itself in all its amazing sparkling beauty. I then become popular. Suddenly. People want to know me, talk to me. They are charmed, maybe even seduced. I'm a mystery they want to unravel. They invite me to join them in their conversations. For a brief moment, I become one of them. We talk about stuff and the weather, introduce ourselves, debate the war in Irak, discuss the merits of the latest movies we saw, share ideas and maybe even a drink. Believe me you. A clean wheelchair is a ticket to social life!
But it never lasts long...
Just like clockwork, a secret agent working for the puddles uses trickery to ambush me and ruins it all. Faking lack of manners and consideration, this shadowy figure will commit an act of unmeasurable depravity. He will do the unforgiveable. While engaged in conversation with me, he will use my wheelchair as a foot rest... He will place his boots, usually dripping with festing unholy puddle water, somewhere on my wheelchair, usually on top of a wheel or on the small bars right above a caster. With this single act, he destroys all my previous labor of love and breaks the spell. I'm not longer a guy with sparkling personality in a sparkling wheelchair. I'm just a guy with sparkling personality but in a crummy dirty wheelchair.
Until next sunday!
Spring is a harsh season for me. There's the beautiful rebirth of nature, it's true. But there's also all that salt and sand used on slippery roads during winter accumulating on the side of the roads or boardwalks. Not to mention all the dog poop unpicked by dog owners during winter now reappearing with each new layer of snow melting away. It's an obstacle course out there. A constant duel between the wheelchair user and the forces of nature in an urban setting. I have to maintain constant vigilance to evade all the traps laid for me but the enemy is too well organised. You see, the puddles are out to get me. They have a mind of their own you know. They plot with each others. They wait patiently for me, treacherously hiding themselves in the shadows of curbs and parked cars. Oh yeah, the puddles are out to get me and each spring, they get me good. Each time I go out, my wheelchair is covered with a spotted leopard pattern of muddy stains.
That's a terrible torment for a selective clean freak like me (If you could have a look at my messy apartment, you would understand why I call myself a selective clean freak...). I can't stand being seen in public with a dirty wheelchair. It's hard to explain why. Any good web site about "Wheelchair Etiquette" would tell you many wheelchair users consider their wheelchair as an extension of their body, part of their personal space. To me, keeping my wheelchair clean and shiny feels like a part of my personal hygiene. It even ranks higher than wearing clean underwear or brushing my teeth on my list of priorities!
I wipe gush off my wheelchair daily but I keep the thorough cleaning job for sundays. It's part of my predictable routine. Sundays are scrub days. I get the sponges, washclothes and buckets of soapy water. Just like in all the eternal epics between the forces of good and evil, my wheelchair becomes a battlefield where the stains left by the armies of puddles are met by the armies of bubbles. Nothing is left untouched. All removeable parts are washed independantly. Every spoke of my sun rimmed wheels will be caressed and scrubbed with tender love and attention until its chrome can shine playfully when touched by the rays of the sun. The cushion will be dusted, washed and straighten so it is again fit to welcome my humble derriere. I'll also invest some time in basic maintenance, checking the brakes and tires' air pressure, doing any required adjustments. The whole process takes me an average of two hours. This is my routine, my meditation, my journey, my obsession.
A clean wheechair is a work of art. Sometimes maybe even a masterpiece. With one, I can face the world holding my head up high, gliding silently in the middle of crowds, almost floating, unnoticed until my clean wheelchair reveals itself in all its amazing sparkling beauty. I then become popular. Suddenly. People want to know me, talk to me. They are charmed, maybe even seduced. I'm a mystery they want to unravel. They invite me to join them in their conversations. For a brief moment, I become one of them. We talk about stuff and the weather, introduce ourselves, debate the war in Irak, discuss the merits of the latest movies we saw, share ideas and maybe even a drink. Believe me you. A clean wheelchair is a ticket to social life!
But it never lasts long...
Just like clockwork, a secret agent working for the puddles uses trickery to ambush me and ruins it all. Faking lack of manners and consideration, this shadowy figure will commit an act of unmeasurable depravity. He will do the unforgiveable. While engaged in conversation with me, he will use my wheelchair as a foot rest... He will place his boots, usually dripping with festing unholy puddle water, somewhere on my wheelchair, usually on top of a wheel or on the small bars right above a caster. With this single act, he destroys all my previous labor of love and breaks the spell. I'm not longer a guy with sparkling personality in a sparkling wheelchair. I'm just a guy with sparkling personality but in a crummy dirty wheelchair.
Until next sunday!
)
