I find it completely wrapped up in a woman’s hair, smacking someone on the bum or clinging to a stranger’s shirt.
Sometimes, when I point someone to the left, “it” points them to the right.
It destroys paper.
It’s been known to redecorate every flat surface possible.
This thing has hit a person in the face and then clung to that person’s nose.
This thing is my right hand.
I call it “It” because it’s a monster, disguised as a hand. So therefore, it belongs in the Adam’s family.
I’ve spent the last year “training” friends on how to handle my precious little keepsake of God’s humor. Words like, “No. Dude, let me stand up before you hug me. Seriously. It behaves better” have been used more than once.
I had to explain to friends that the reason I’m sitting on my hand is because we’re eating and I want to appear polite. Letting my hand finger someone else’s fried chicken isn’t a good thing. But it happens if I don’t cage “It.”
Now that I’m back with my family in Alaska, I don’t even think about “coaching” my right hand to cling to my pants pocket while I pick up a knife in the kitchen. It’s no big deal if my Li’l Monster has some play time while I use a knife. My parents are used to it.
When I’m using a knife and my right hand starts playing with a decoration on the wall— there’s a lot of noise. It freaks everyone out. And the only explanation is, “The Monster thought it was pretty– sorry for the scratch in the wall… Not my fault.”
Eh. Laughter is needed, Dear. Some things never change.