I’m not shy about much of anything. Don’t quite know where that came from, but I’ve always been that way. I’m glad I was built that way, because worrying about what other people are thinking drives people insane – and in the case of southern California, drives people to their plastic surgeon’s office to have their faces pulled so tight so they look, well, bizarre. I’m not saying I’m not curious what people are thinking, I just don’t care very much if they’re thinking good or ill about me. My friends tell me I’m a liar – that everyone cares what other people think. Maybe, but I’m one of the lucky ones who doesn’t lose any sleep over it. This quality has come in handy since my amputation, to say the least.

I do wonder though what people are thinking – and no, that’s different boys and girls, than being paranoid that every human being on the planet now thinks I’m ugly because I have one leg.

Take the other night for example. Although I’m really good about my diet 90% of the time, I crave junk food at times like everyone else. So it’s probably like 9:45pm, and I want a burger. I’ve been watching a movie so I’m not all that dressed. I have this thing for tank tops, in all colors known to man kind, so I lounge around in them a lot at home. I had one of those on and no bra of course – I’m by myself right, so who cares. Also had on a pair of gym shorts – the tight sort of short-shorts if you know what I mean. I love them — so comfy and most importantly, they make my ass look amazing! Since I’m just going through the drive-through, no need to change into something else. I tend to toss my prosthesis to the curb just as soon as I get home, so not about to put that thing on for a 10 minute trip. I grab my crutches and head out the door.

A certain place starting with “Mc” is where I ended up – I’m lazy, there’s one really near where I live – which is true of the entire population of the planet I think. I get there and and there is a line out to the street for the drive through. I kid you not. What, is Ronald McD there himself taking orders and signing autographs?

At this point I’m really craving my burger, and ready to beat somebody down to get one. I have two choices – (1) wait in the drive through line and risk the restaurant closing (which was in a few minutes) before I place my order, or (2) go inside and order there. Hmmm. Not much of a choice if I want that burger.

I pull in, park, and head inside. Burger places in summer down here are always packed to the brim with people at all hours, and this visit was no different. As I went in, it was like the second coming of Jesus himself – nearly every eyeball in the place was on me, and I’m not being paranoid – as I explained earlier.

Weird.

It dawned on me that I did look like quite the spectacle – unintentionally, I was lounging at home, right? This was one of those moments where I was really curious what people (guys mostly) were looking at. I mean everything was pretty much there to see : fitted tank top with no bra, tight short-shorts, and my stump right there in plain site. Don’t get me wrong – this is far from how I normally dress. I mean it’s near closing time, and I never meant to actually go inside the restaurant, remember?

So are these people looking at my boobs, my ass, my stump, or all of these people just on crack or something? Or perhaps some combination of them all? I really wanted to know, and badly. So I picked the closest set of eyeballs and asked the guy. Do you know what he said?

After the shock of me calling him on his stare that burned right through me wore off enough so he could speak – he fumbled to find some words, and he said it was my eyes that caught his attention. Mmm, right. I was guessing his answer was going to be boobs. Eyes? Come on people! Honesty is really what I was seeking, as I was (and still am) curious. Feel free to tweet your answer to me if you want to – would love a *real* answer.

This post was by Jessica Mitchell, our resident one legged hot chick. You can follow her on Twitter by clicking here, and also catch her on here on Fridays for “Ask a one legged hot chick”.