One of the unanticipated results of sharing my hand project has been advice in all forms or suggestions of who I should reach out to for some help. The later is how I met Dr Jacqueline Hebert. Dr Hebert uses super high-techy stuff at the University of Albert to help created better prosthetics for people with limb amputations.
After some back and forth, what I've learnt is that my hand project falls into the category of orthotics and the it is considered a splint or brace. She also pointed me to the product pictured below which is pretty close to what I need. This glove is most often used by those who suffer from a stroke or brain injury and lose muscle control.
This product confirms my belief that there is virtually no beauty in the world of healthcare ( more on this later ) but I will buy one so that I can reverse engineer it. Why reinvent the wheel, you know?View the full article →
It’s the fact that he was your typical Abercrombie & Fitch douchebag — in her eyes enough of a reason for an upgrade — that hurt the most.
The festival was coming to a close that night with a two hour electronic dance DJ act. We’d been drinking all day and in surprisingly good spirits considering how much the weekend’s show had taxed our bodies. So fuck it, lets do this.
A DJ’s job is to essentially speed up and slow down the rhythm using sound. Read the crowd’s energy and work with it.
The boys and I got into it. I really got into it. Jumped. Swayed. Hands pumping in the air.
But I don’t remember the moment we started dancing together because it felt so organic. I know it was early on in the set because we didn’t stop for most of the show. I matched her rhythm and she found mine. We created rhythm. We took it up and back down, together. I slid my hands over her hipbones and dipped just the tips of my fingers in her pockets.
She was wearing a light shear once piece jumper. Black. The kind that flaps violently in a light wind. God, I love a woman who can wear one with confidence!
I pulled her closer.
She was petite. No taller than five foot three.
I held her body close up against mine.
Soft delicate brown skin. A slim waste. Persian? Long black hair pulled back and held in place with two glow in the dark bobby pins.
We had chemistry.
The difference I find is once a girl reaches out to hold your hand. I find it is in that time when she goes from being wary of you to giving herself to you. She reached back with both hands open facing back waiting for my grasp. This is the moment I always fear. Do I say something or really fuck it up in an attempt to have her ask? I played it off. She tried again a few minutes later. A third time.
“Listen, the thing you have to understand about me is that my right hand is absolutely fucked up because of an accident as a child” I said leaning in to her ear as her dark hair brushed up against my cheek. It was the only time we spoke using words. Our language of choice that night was our bodies.
Without missing a beat she took my less functional arm and lightly kissed the hand. For the first time that night she looked back up at me. A slight smiled played off her lips. She leaned back and rested her body against mine. Her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her torso and she let go, letting me hold her. A quiet acceptance of our desires to be wanted.
He was about six feet tall, tanned, muscular and wearing board shorts. No Top. All American.
As we separated for a minute she spotted him directly in front of us and went straight for it. Moved in front and then back up into him. But it didn’t work. He had no rhythm. Couldn’t give a shit. A guy who’s stunningly Vanilla appearance makes him constantly desirable and allows him to dictate. Recognizing her folly she came right back hands outstretched to catch my face and end up on my lips. I stepped aside.
“I don’t even want to know your name” was all I could think to say as I pushed her waist in the direction of her leaving friends. We were both hurt now. We will both remember each other.
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