By Lorry Myers
I wish I had an intriguing story to tell, a story that would make you think I am more than I am. Maybe a tale about a falling child that needed catching or a cat in a tree that needed saving. Perhaps I was working with a sledgehammer on a remodel or lifting weights in the gym and overpowered myself.
You, dear readers, know better than that.
What if I told you there was a fight in a bar, and I had to step up? Maybe a stellar pickleball save for the win.
That’s not how this story goes.
The true story is simple: I picked up something heavy, lost my balance, karate chopped the doorframe and broke my hand. Ouch. I didn’t know it was broken because I’ve never broken a bone before. I heard that an injury like that would turn all kinds of colors, and you would know it was broken.
Not me.
It hurt, I iced it and went on. Two weeks later I was at the doctor for something unrelated and the nurse asked me questions like, have you fallen? I laughed and told her almost. One x-ray later, I went home with a cast on my hand.
My right hand.
Of course, my right hand in my dominate hand, the one I count on. I depend on it to comb my hair, shift my car, and brush my teeth. This is my cooking hand, my writing hand, the hand I use to put on my makeup.
Those were the good old days.
Now I depend on my left hand to pick up the slack. Only, my left hand doesn’t know how to do anything. It doesn’t know how to curl hair or flip a spatula or button a blouse.
Where has my left hand been all my life?
Seriously, what has that hand been doing? Why did I not give it attention or bother to teach it or train it? It seems to have no idea how to reach for the light switch or open my car door. Even something simple like a wave or a text or turning the page of my book is foreign to that left hand.
What is a righty to do?
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
