If my big sister is in town, she’ll physically block my husband from going up the stairs to get my shoes. I walk with a limp from cerebral palsy and have a brain that, on good days, leads my husband to liken me to an absentminded professor and on bad days has friends and coworkers using words like “learned helplessness” and “weaponized incompetence” to describe my general state of disarray. Oh, yes, and we both have lived with disability our entire lives. It was only recently, though, that Chloé and I began talking about the thing most strangers notice about us right off the bat: we’re both stunningly gorgeous. (Chloé gave a lovely reading I gave an ill-conceived toast that made light of my Mormon ancestry and featured jokes about incest and polygamy.) We’ve gotten drinks in a bar in Lawrence, eaten gourmet doughnuts from a food truck in Austin, attended a mutual best friend’s wedding in Salt Lake City. I’ve known the writer Chloé Cooper Jones since 2011.
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