Hot and heavy(-handed)

I feel like I should come with my own warning label these days.

CAUTION: Do not let this woman around heavy objects. Or hot objects. Or sharp ones. Actually, just roll her up in bubble wrap but leave her head visible so she can breathe.

With a curling iron in my bad hand the other day, I came thisclose to burning myself in a place that would prompt someone to ask, “How the hell did you get burned there?”

The oven is another nemesis. I’m no match for heavy pots and casserole dishes.

True story: Also the other day, a meal in the oven almost burned because I wasn’t able to lift it out and Nick wasn’t around. It’s as though my bad hand essentially said, “You can try to use me, but I’m not the most reliable. And this hot dish is gonna land right on your feet if you do this.”

OK, yes, so maybe I’ve anthropomorphize my hand a little too much. Given it a sinister quality it really doesn’t have. Or does it? (Let’s just say it wanted to delete the previous three sentences. And it just gave me the 1-finger salutation.)

I’ve got a lot of hand-related puns I want to use, but I’m not that cheesy. On the other hand, maybe I am. I mean, doesn’t one good hand deserve another?

Hands down I’ve got too much on my hands. High-five on that one!

All silliness aside, for some reason losing part of the strength in my hand and fingers reminded of this exercise I did long ago. To learn what it’s like to live with a disability or impairment, tape your thumb to your hand so you can’t use it at all. See how long you can go without that mobility and gripping ability.

Not long.

My bad hand isn’t that bad. So for now, I’ll wear my hair straight and only go out to eat.

Got to hand it to me, I make the best of a bad situation.