Here's why: I can't wear a onesie.

I sit at the dining room table in the mid-morning sun. To my right stands a mug of tepid coffee and in front of me lies the Urban Outfitters summer catalog.

I flip through the pages and search for a few items to add to my closet. I hate buying summer clothes; they're so bland or worse -- beachy. Many pieces are too revealing or impractical. I'm too thin to wear this shirt and too short to wear that dress. Plus, I don't like pastels.

Page by page I eliminate overly revealing tank tops and hideous frocks and shorts. Nobody needs to see my stick legs. Then I see it: Lux Tube Top Cuff Short Onesie.

A onesie?! I think. How bizarre is that? Does anybody over the age of five even wear those? And in brown? It looks like a UPS driver's uniform. Still, it's kind of cute. How much is it?

As soon as I consider the price I know things have gotten out of hand. While allowing the left side of my brain to relax by leisurely shopping, the right side -- more specifically, the part of a woman's right brain that tells her the pair of six-inch heels are worth the bloody feet or that she can pull off a leopard-print, crushed-velvet suit or that a gimpy girl can comfortably and justifiably wear a one-piece delivery-carrier's ensemble -- has taken control.

"No," says lefty.

"It could work," says the right side.

"No no no."

"It comes in extra small. It would fit."

"Think of how fun that's going to be -- having somebody dress you in that. It will be like putting on footy pajamas or a swimsuit. You despise swimsuits. You said once you feel like you're being smothered."

"It's different now because this doesn't have straps."

"And...?"

"So the straps are what I hate. They don't pull up easily and make the suit tight. This onesie has a tube top. I love tube tops. No straps!"

"So when someone carries you the shirt won't have any give because it's connected to your ass, which, by the way, is huge and will yank the top down and flash passersby."

"At least the shirt won't ride up. You'll never see my panties."

"The pants will."

"What?"

"Do you not think at all? Consider the wedgie. No matter what way you move or are repositioned, the shorts will twist and bunch and jam themselves in your butt. Remember that one time in Myrtle Beach?"

"No, I --"

"Mother pulled you out of the pool and was carrying you to the lounge chair to be with Aunt Tammy and Aunt Carol. You were wet, so the suit clung to --"

"I asked her to fix that wedgie."

"She told you she would adjust your suit once she sat you down. But it was too late. Your swimsuit was so crooked that your cooch was on display as you passed all those sunbathers."

"Stop it. These are shorts. They'll cover the cooch. I'll make someone fix them if they get too uncomfortable. I can suffer this once."

"Yeah? How are you going to pee?"

The right tries frantically to counter, thinking maybe I could only wear the onesie to parties or when I know I'd be changing clothes within eight hours. Maybe if I added some snaps in the crotch like babies (or -- to use a less humiliating example -- young ballerinas) have on their onesies ...

Snaps? Am I joking? How freakish will that look in a public restroom -- with whoever is helping me's hands fumbling with tiny fasteners and their face between my legs? Might as well just toss me onto the diaper-change station and powder my ass, too.

With that single question, the left side wins.

Fashion: 0, Logic: one(sie).

Black Shoes / White Shoes

I turn off the television and glance at my computer screen. 12:47 A.M. My eyes sting. I blink. I reach for my cell-phone and check for missed calls, a text message, anything. I know she hasn't called. The phone's been with me all day. I scroll through old messages. Nothing. She promised to call by midnight. Great, I think, she's dead. Why do I let her go out alone?

I turn and drive to the other desk where she has prepared a snack -- three Chips Ahoy! cookies and a cup of room-temperature lemonade. Crumbs and a few swallows remain. I ate them at nine when I got home from shopping. As I drink, the theme from Sex and the City startles me. I spin around and fumble with my phone. I don't look at the screen to see who's calling; it's her ringer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Baby," she says. "I'm gonna leave Black and White within the hour. Chris just bought everyone shots, and Stephen hasn't come yet."

"Are you having a good time?" I ask. She sounds like she's having fun. That's nice, I think, we can't be with just each other constantly. I look at the clock again. 1:03 A.M. "So you'll be home by two?"

"Yeah, man. But I gotta go now. Call ya in a bit." She hangs up.

I finish my lemonade. I watch myself drink it in my makeup mirror. I stare at my eyes. They're red from being in front of the computer for hours, and my eyeliner's smudged. I stare so long I forget that I'm looking at myself.

I bump my joystick. The sudden clicking of the gears breaks the silence. I turn the television back on and watch music videos. Usher's on again. I hate this song. My phone rings.

"I'm on my way back to the bar," she says.

"What?" I say. It's 1:54 A.M. I begin to pace. I drive to the window and back to the desk. "But I'm pretty sleep --"

"I really have to pee, though, and I'm kinda drunk, and there was this guy on Eighth Street I didn't want to pass, and I really have to pee."

"Fine. Can you please be home soon, though?"

"Are you mad?" she asks.

"No."

"I'm just gonna pee and come right home. Promise. Bye."

I snap the phone shut and check my e-mail again.

Half an hour later the elevator dings. My phone rings, and I hear her voice simultaneously in the receiver and down the hall.
The door swings open. It bangs against the dresser. She stumbles inside.

"Baby, I'm home!" She tosses her pink plastic purse in the closet and kicks off her white sandals. It's one awkward movement after another on her way to the bathroom. She flips on the light and unfastens her pants at the same time.

I look into the yellow bathroom. I squint until my eyes adjust as I park in the doorway.

"How was your night?" she asks. She laughs as she talks. Her flushed cheeks and ridiculous grin reveal her evening out. She looks even taller the usual, her legs out-stretched as she leans forward on her knees. Her red hair falls over her fair face, and she tucks it behind her ears as she reaches for the toilet paper. She almost loses her balance.

"I watched all three movies," I say. "I take it you had a good time."

"I did! I'm so drunk right now. Chris bought us all these shots, then so did Milo, and it was crazy." She attempts to stand, bracing herself with her left hand on the rim of the bathtub. She leans sideways and rolls into the tub.

"Get out of there!" I say. "You know how disgusting that thing is." I pull further into the bathroom. She continues to talk about the night -- about Stephen being high on crystal and how she and Chris don't really hate each other. She starts to remove her jeans.

"Why don't you get out of there before you take those off?" I cringe at the thought of the dirty bathtub.

"Nah. I got it," she says. She kicks her feet, and her pant leg dangles in the toilet.

"Catch that!" I, forgetting I can't reach them, go to grab her pants. She jerks her feet away from the water and climbs out of the tub. In the other room, she sits in a chair by her bed. She isn't smiling as much. She barely speaks.

"I just need a few seconds and then I'll put you in bed," she says. She chugs water from a gallon that's been sitting on the desk. She leans forward. She's naked except for her Vassar Grad t-shirt and baby blue underwear. I'm surprised she's still wearing her shirt.

She reaches for my shoes.

"No. I need to keep these on for balance," I say, pulling away. "I'll wait until you're ready to pick me up."

"I'm good," she says. She turns off my wheelchair and connects it to the charger. She removes my shoes and tosses them under the bed. "Hold on."

She doubles over and gags.

"Can you not puke in the middle of the floor, please?" I adjust my weight. My socks slip on the footplates. I slide forward.

She grabs a grocery bag and lays it on the floor in front of her. She spits. Then vomits.

I can't move; she's disconnected my chair.

"That's nice. At least go in the bathroom," I say. I try not to look at the mess. "Could you plug me in first, though?" She re-engages me and runs to the toilet.

It's 3:11 A.M.

I check my e-mail and play Collapse for an hour. I focus on the colorful blocks -- red, green, blue, white. My stomach begins to hurt from holding myself upright. I told her not to take my shoes. I've turned the television off, and the only sounds I hear are noises from the street mixed with her heaves coming from the dark bathroom. In between her gags, I ask if she's alright.

She asks if she looks really sick. I tell her she does.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do. She keeps falling asleep on the toilet's rim. I can't help her beyond words, so I get angry.

"It's almost five. I seriously hope you're calling off work tomorrow, because this is not fair," I say. I don't yell. "And I'm not going to be all sympathetic. You know how I feel about irresponsible shit like this." I say her name. She hates when I'm upset and use her name.

"I know," she says. Her voice is soft and hoarse.

"And I don't care if you're hung-over or don't want to go with me anymore or whatever; I'm going to the Rocky Horror convention tonight."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"What do you need me to do? Are you OK?"

"I'm really cold." She shivers as she walks out of the bathroom. She pulls down my bed-sheets.

"Do you need a doctor? We can call someone." I try to think of where I'd take her or whom I'd call if she gets worse. Maybe the security guard downstairs?

"No," she says.

I park my chair beside the pool of pink vomit. I can't smell it anymore. She picks me up and puts me in bed.

"Give me the phone in case you die," I say. Every night I sleep with the phone; tonight I worry I'll actually use it.

She hands me the receiver and crawls into her bunk. I watch as she shivers and listen to her whimpers. Neither of us say goodnight.

Her shivering stops and she rolls toward the wall. I lie awake until seven to make sure she doesn't need me.

Originally published: Chimera. vol 3. 168-171. Edinboro University of Pennsylvania, 2006.

Introduction

The Crooked Truth: Writings of a 43-pound woman whose opinions of life are as crooked as her spine emerged from two ideas (a) my physical appearance -- a tiny yet mouthy woman living with Muscular Dystrophy and scoliosis and (b) my writings' skewed views of reality (often because of, but not exclusive to, the former).

As a journalist (to be more accurate -- a freelance writer and copy editor who spends 80 percent of the day composing article ideas but never articles on her PowerBook), I began this blog, The Crooked Truth, in an attempt to regularly produce personal essays, pop-culture critiques and short, creative non-fiction stories. Varied now, the direction and theme of the site will come in time.

In May 2005, I earned a bachelor's degree in print journalism and a minor in theatre arts from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. After graduation, however, my career temporarily shifted from "aspiring journalist" to "settling telemarketer," and I typed little more than instant messages when at the keyboard. Fortunately, those dark months have ended, and I'm writing again.