Flirting is inaccessible
Something that is more of a problem than it used to be
Hello,
Let me start by saying: if you are in any way related to me, stop reading now. Many thanks.
Right, the rest of you can stay.
Picture the scene.
You’re in a queer bar. It’s busy. The music has been cranked up. You are sort of dancing, sort of chatting to your friends, mostly just soaking up the excellent vibes. There’s a girl. She’s pretty. You catch her eye a few time. She smiles. You smile. In some small and unexplainable miracle, she comes over. She introduces herself. You try to do the same.
Except. It is too loud for her to understand you, because you have a speech impediment. You see her brain trying to unscramble what she’s heard. Her smile slips a bit. You try again. She pretends to have caught it this time, nodding over enthusiastically. You ask her if she’s having a good time. She has no idea what you’ve said and asks you the same thing. Now you’re the one doing the vigorous nodding. It’s getting increasingly awkward. You consider your options; there aren’t any. She looks uncomfortable. You try to project a breeziness you are absolutely not feeling. She tells you to have a good night. You watch her walk back to her friends. Your own friend raises an eyebrow, wanting the goss. You shrug and try to forget all about it, another life experience lost to being drowned out.
Rinse, repeat.
Look, I am not complaining that pretty girls in bars are attempting to talk to me. This is never not a delightful surprise. I am simply saying that, if I have learned anything in the 18 months since coming out, it is this: flirting is inaccessible. And I care about that a whole lot more than I did when I was half-heartedly trying to flirt with boys.
It’s not just the old I-can’t-make-myself-understood-in-loud-places problem, either. Do you know what else flirting relies on? Body language. Do you know what I don’t have any ability to control? My body. I think you see the issue here. My friends like to joke that I’ve never needed body language because I can have an entire conversation with my eyebrows (not untrue), but it turns out this only works if I already know you. And anyway, I am not convinced there is an eyebrow move that says “I am not just being friendly”. If there is, do comment below.
Anyway, the body language issue is annoying but quite intellectually interesting, if you think about it. My inability to use it has never prevented me from making friends, networking, or holding the attention of an audience. Truth be told, I have never given it much thought. And yet it feels so integral to conveying and generating romantic interest. Why is that? And how do I talk to girls without being suddenly, acutely aware of my body’s idiosyncratic ways? I am still working it out.
This is one of those rare problems that isn’t actually anyone’s fault. There’s no access fix or anti-ableist action that makes my voice clearer or my body more controllable (sure, you could make bars quieter, but then dancing would be significantly less fun). It’s just one of those things. I also don’t necessarily believe that the situation precludes me from meeting someone; it’s just another way that doing so is harder for me than it is for some other people. I’m not even really that bothered, all things considered. It’s just annoying, and slightly baffling that at 30 years old I am still finding new and interesting ways that being disabled in a nondisabled world is a challenge. What fun.
Speak soon,
Lucy
Read more about my travails in dating in my book, The View From Down Here
Women's lives are shaped by sexism and expectations. Disabled people's lives are shaped by ableism and a complete lack of expectations. But what happens when you're subjected to both sets of rules?
This powerful, honest, hilarious and furious memoir from journalist and advocate Lucy Webster looks at life at the intersection; the struggles, the joys and the unseen realities of being a disabled woman. From navigating the worlds of education and work, dating and friendship; to managing care; contemplating motherhood; and learning to accept your body against a pervasive narrative that it is somehow broken and in need of fixing, The View From Down Here shines a light on what it really means to move through the world as a disabled woman.
