Being left-handed of course has meant that I have had to withstand a lot of teasing over the years. That’s ok with me, I have long-since accepted the fact that I am evil-handed. But now apparently there are some scientific studies that show some interesting things about left-handed folks. For one, thing: don’t mess with me, I will seriously screw you up in a fight, as long as you are right-handed. But, when you also take the fact that I am way way more likely to have mental disabilities, then it all sort of makes sense.
Here’s the story: Survival of the southpaws
I have never understood all the derision directed at southpaws. I have nothing against folks who lead with the left hand (or, for that matter, people who possess left hands . . . ). I can empathize in many ways. I remember several of my teachers attempting to convert left-handed writers, claiming that their writing was sloppy. My fifth grade teacher was a stickler for tidy cursive. He had a way of making me feel like a total bottom-feeder because my handwriting didn’t resemble calligraphy—as though a dismal future lay ahead of me because of my inadequate penmanship. There were always samples of impeccable handwriting on display at the back of the room, constant reminders of my failure. I envied and sometimes resented the worthy owners of these pieces.
I decided that perhaps I was left-handed. It might seem a nonsensical theory but hear me out: If genetics or some maniacal god had intended for me to be left-handed then, of course, my default right-handed handwriting would be poor. Right? In support of this hypothesis is the fact that I hold my pen all wrong, always have. Jason says I look like an arthritic bird with a gnarled claw wrapped around its pen. He’s prone to hyperbole, but I’d have to admit it’s a fairly accurate description. When I was learning to write I remember feeling discomfort holding the pencil in my right hand and having an instinctive urge to switch hands.
I guess I’ll never know whether I am right or left-handed. Either way, I’ve obviously adapted. I’ve also adapted to all the bizarre inquiries about my absent left hand. I like to think I’m not easily offended; in fact, I’m almost never offended. But, inspired by your note about southpaws, I’m going to share the story of a time when I was, in fact, both stunned and offended by ignorance and rudeness. I stopped at Mac’s in Osborne Village on my way to work; I was attempting to purchase a bottle of water. I placed it on the counter and the clerk glanced at my arm. There is always that moment—the moment when the person notices but tries not to appear to be noticing. But this guy didn’t hide his curiosity. He blurted out, “What happened to your hand?†The “natural causes, no ones knows for sure†answer didn’t quite satisfy this dude. He told me that he didn’t believe me. He went on to describe a documentary he had seen about anti-nausea drugs that caused birth defects—not just thalidomide; there were others. He wanted to know when I was born and what my mother’s pregnancy had been like. I was already speechless and stupefied; nothing could top this display, I thought to myself. At this very point I heard a second voice—and it definitely topped the first speaker. The guy behind me in line was equally suspicious of my mother and what had to have been her drug-pushing obstetrician. As luck would have it, this guy had not only seen the documentary in question, but he had also done a bit of research while taking a few pre-med courses. I sincerely hope he is not a doctor today. Anyway, their discussion went on for a few minutes, giving me time to think of that perfect response—the one I usually come up with long after the perfect moment to say it has passed. The clerk even gave me the perfect segue: He said that he hoped he hadn’t offended me, but he was just curious. I took a deep breath and said: “Actually, you did offend me. I’ve been standing here wondering why you have such a big, ugly nose. But I’m way too nice to ask whether your mother did drugs.†The very best part is that (in a fit of nervousness at having just said this) I walked out with the water—I didn’t even pay.
There are dozens of awesome missing hand stories—too many to tell here. Jason and I have an ongoing debate about whether leg amp or arm amp stories are better. I think he wins. Legs are just inherently funnier, what with all the hopping and potential for falling and so on. Most of his stories involve alcohol, of course. It’s a standard prank to hide the artificial leg after a night of drunken tomfoolery. One local bar used to have a weekly “stupid human tricks.†Jason and his extremely sophisticated cohort decided they could win with a “pull off this guy’s leg†stunt. There was tremendous build: They took the stage and Jason attempted to pull off his friend’s leg, but to no avail. The crowd was whooping and hollering by the time the friend grabbed Jason’s foot and pulled off his leg (which remained hidden in his pant leg, creating the illusion that his leg was actually detached). The room was so silent you could hear the waiter swing the door open to see what had happened to quiet the crowd so quickly. Not the reaction they expected.
As usual, I don’t really know where I started or how I arrived here. But it’s 4:30 am and I’m going to try to sleep. I have to get Eyvi ready for hockey in three hours. Yikes.
Holy crap Paula. I love these stories…. Good work on the comeback, that was particularly well done. I have been afflicted by the late comeback syndrome before, it sucks. I must say I wish that I had seen some of Jason’s drinking hijinks in person, they must have been quite memorable. I hope you slept! (selfishly I kind of hope you continue commenting however, since blogging can be a rather solitary experience when you only get a few hits a day, and very little interaction…. 🙂 )