Being disabled sucks. When you’re not fighting for equal access, you’re having to disprove assumptions people make about you based solely on your disability. However, while these disadvantages inevitably grind you down day after day, there are a few perks that make life livable.

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I get front row viewing rights, and a free backstage pass.

This doesn’t apply to large scale arena gigs (unfortunately), but the smaller scale gigs in pubs and clubs are a great chance for me to meet the bands.
Here I bumped into Harry from Yashin as I was working my way through the backstage corridors which doubled as the access route, and at a later Yashin gig I also met Kevin under similar circumstances. I have also sat and had quite a long conversation with Otherkin, a British Indie-rock band who were selling their own merch when not on stage, and the merch area was the only accessible bit.
Wrestling shows are just as good; I almost always get a ringside spot, getting up close and personal with some of the biggest wrestlers in British wrestling right now.

Wheelchairs can be decorated at Christmas, and I don’t get judged.

Every Christmas, without fail, I will buy some cheap tinsel and wrap it around my wheelchair. While most people would get some serious side-eye for wearing a tinsel scarf at the start of December, I get smiles and waves, particularly off the little kids.

Image credits: en.wikipedia.org

No one judges you for going to see a kids movie without kids.

I was 19 when the Minions movie was released and 20 when the Secret Life of Pets was released, and I got to see both of them in the cinema. I don’t have younger siblings or children myself, but that didn’t matter. No one batted an eyelid when my dad asked for two adult tickets because they assumed that I was stupid, and my dad was a poor, unfortunate carer dragged along for the ride. The truth is, I think my dad was even more excited than I was to see Minions…

Image credits: grantland.com

You are guaranteed a window seat on the bus.

These days, most buses have a designated area assigned for people with wheelchairs, and this spot just so happens to be next to a large window. It’s a small and seemingly insignificant thing, but as someone who has always enjoyed watching the world go by from a moving vehicle, this is particularly nice.

Image credits: en.wikipedia.org

Queue jumping is totally allowed.

In the UK, the inner circles of hell are reserved for queue jumpers… unless you just so happen to be disabled.
There’s nothing quite as rewarding as gliding past a long queue of impatient people to the head of the line, receiving disapproving glares and the occasional tut, knowing full well that no one can do anything about it.

Image credits: stevejbicknell.com

Shoes last forever.

As a wheelchair user my feet rarely touch the street; I don’t need to spend a huge amount of money to buy a pair of shoes guaranteed to last a long time. I can neither deny nor confirm the allegation that my shoe rack is overflowing because I use this as the perfect excuse to buy yet more shoes.
Similarly, high heels are all glamour without the clamour. There are no blisters, no pressure sores on the balls of my feet, and absolutely no risk of me falling flat on my bum as I’m already sat down.

Image credits: www.alamy.com

Surprise miracles are a great prank.

You might have seen #AmbulatoryWheelchairUsersExist trending on Twitter recently; it’s a movement that demonstrates that not all wheelchair users are unable to stand or even walk.
My chronic illness limits my ability to stand for a long time, or walk a meaningful difference. I use my wheelchair like a miniature car, getting me from place to place so I can work and socialise, or get an in-ring photo with Mia Yim, one of the wrestlers from the inaugural WWE Mae Young Classic.
What I can also do is surprise strangers who come up to me on the street and immediately place their hands on me and pray, without asking for consent first. Their intentions may be good, but this is very intrusive and embarrassing in public, so while my reaction may seem mean at first, it’s not without reason.
I like to leap up, shout “It’s a miracle!” at the top of my voice, sit back down, and roll off. It’s a quick way of getting out of an awkward scenario and on with the rest of my day, and turns the attention onto the intruder who looks suitably embarrassed. I’ve never had the same stranger do this to me twice…

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