Free Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher Page A

They were the style of boot Helena Bonham Carter wore at award shows, minus the kitten heel. They were custom made in the finest leather and must have cost a fortune.
    I hated them. They were too fancy, and actually called more attention to my ankle than the Keds. My parents insisted I wear them, though. Winter, spring, summer, and fall, I wore those boots. I laced them up for hundreds of days in a row. I was thrilled when they finally started to pinch my right toes and gave me blisters; I could get rid of them.
    And shorts: forget it. I refused to wear shorts with the prosthesis. I commend amputees who do. But it wasn’t my style. Shorts didn’t make me feel pretty. They made me feel awkward and conspicuous. When my prosthesis was exposed, people stared at my leg or started asking questions. Covered up, I blended into a crowd.
    Even at summer camp, I wore full-length pants. At age nine, I attended the Belvoir Terrace sleep-away camp. It was a posh all-girlscamp in Massachusetts with the best facilities, everything a young girl could hope for. I was homesick and plotted to run away daily. I kept my prosthesis and stump hidden. I slept with my leg on every night and changed in the bathroom alone. It was an uncomfortable, challenging summer. Jeans, boots, and sleeping with a prosthetic on did not help the abrasions or provide any respite from the heat.
    I became close to a girl in my bunk named Jessie. One day, she asked me to take my leg off and show her my stump. She actually begged me. I trusted her, so we went into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet seat with the lid down and took off my prosthesis. I expected her to say, “Cool.” She was a tomboy. Tomboys don’t squirm. Much to my dismay, upon seeing my stump, Jessie screamed, cried, and ran out of the bathroom. On the outside, I shrugged. I went into extreme “no biggie” mode and managed to keep the friendship afloat. Inside, I was rocked. It was a life-defining moment. I would never trust anyone again to see my stump without fearing rejection.
    Jessie’s reaction reinforced my cover-up obsession. On the soccer field, in the softball dugout, or along the mountain trail, the girl in shorts next to me would look at my jeans and inevitably ask, “Aren’t you hot?”
    Yes, in Massachusetts in August, I was sweating buckets. But wearing shorts would have really brought the heat.
    “I’m fine,” I said. “Got any stickers?” At nine, I was skillful at changing an awkward conversation topic.
    Swimming publically? My rule was: only in Jamaica. The one time I swam at camp, I had to change into a swimming prosthesis in the bathroom, then rush to the lakeshore. Even at the peak of summer, the lake water was damn cold in the mornings. Other girls took their time submerging to get used to the temperature. I jumped right in sono one could see my leg. Ever jump into a freezing cold lake? Only polar bears would consider that fun.
    For three decades, I dreaded warm weather. From May to September, I was a prisoner in my own body. It was partially my own fault, due to my fears and hang-ups. Regardless, I loathed bathing suit season. Other kids counted down the days until summer vacation. I counted the days until fall.
    •  •  •
    By the time I was sixteen, I was already five foot nine and had really long limbs. Although my arms sometimes made me feel like a monkey, they served me well for high school volleyball. I was the setter and captain of the Fieldston volleyball team. I wore sweatpants instead of little shorts like the other girls on the team. It didn’t matter. Playing a sport made me feel good about myself—strong and sexy. The knee pads even covered my bulky knee where the prosthetic was fastened. I connected in a positive way with my body. (Another sport that helped there? Sex.)
    Along with my high school physical breakthroughs, I also emerged sartorially. I got really into fashion, and wrested control of my wardrobe from Mom.
    Out: Mom’s style of