I'm a Left-handed woman living in a right-handed world.
A random musing for this lovely Monday.
Everything in my life has been shown to me from the perspective of a right-handed person. It started young. One of my earliest memories is getting to use the cute panda scissors in kindergarten. I felt cool, yeah, but that was the first time I realized I was different. Being a left-handed person doesn’t seem like a major thing to deal with. But I’ve had to reverse engineer a world made for right-handed people. Like opening a door, for instance. Have you, a right-handed person, ever reached out for a door with the doorknob on the left side, across your body? No, I don’t want to show you my cleavage, I’m just opening a fucking door.
It’s an interesting way to experience the world. I was taught to write by a right-handed person. And I can’t really write, which is funny, cause I’m a writer. My handwriting was so bad that they gave me a laptop in the 3rd grade. That’s 9 years old. Same age, I got contact lenses. And now, a pen in hand, it can only be a murder weapon for me. I try to write, and my hand cramps. I just don’t know how to hold the damn thing. So if you see a pen in my hand and I’m not writing you a check, you should run, cause I’m going straight for your jugular.
It’s an invisible thing to be left-handed, but it’s a thing nonetheless. I was so relieved when my son chose to pick up his fork with his right hand and attempt to throw a baseball at t-ball. He’s definitely right-handed. There’s hope for him to be able to write. I was thinking I’d do all his tracing exercises and relearn how to do longform. If anything, to have a cool signature when I release my first book. Some people are afraid of what people will think about their books. Not me, I’m nervous that I’ll need to sign them. Would it be uncool to make a custom stamp? Like what if it’s a 3D printer that’s hooked to some AI where I can dictate a personalized message, and it will write for me. Like a little signing robot. I wonder if that will fly. Or I can just relearn to hold a pen. It might be freeing to write long form. But I type so goddam fast. Can my brain even slow down enough to write with a pen? Should I just stick to calligraphy classes, so I can create some cool initials and a heart, and call it a day? Of course, I haven’t sold my book yet, but I’m that weird left-handed person that’s had to figure out how to make a world that’s not built for me work in my favor.
I can’t stop thinking about those panda scissors from kindergarten. There were three pairs and only one left-handed kid. I always got first choice, and the rest of the kids would fight to the death to hold them. I didn’t have to share. Not my panda scissors. Would it be weird if I bought a pair for my right-handed child? Just so he can feel a little left of center, too. He’s a pretty think-outside-the-box kid for a right-handed person. Hopefully, as he individuates from me, he doesn’t lose that, as he conforms to a world that’s built for him.
I want to talk myself out of blaming my quirkiness on my left-handedness. But could you think about it? How rude is it to shake hands with your left? Like that’s basically telling someone you hate them. And dancing, you always start with the right foot. I mean, women already dance backwards and in heels. How much can one woman take?
It’s good luck to step on a plane with your right foot first. Am I single-handedly making flying dangerous by stepping with my left foot first? And eating, the etiquette is to cut with the fork in your left hand, put the knife down, and switch to your right to take a bite. But I’m the monster who just cuts and eats, cuts and eats. How vulgar can a woman be?
One of the most special left-handed moments in my life was at a three-Michelin-starred restaurant in San Sebastian. I’m blanking on the name, but it’ll come to me. And they serve the amuse-bouche before bringing the flatware for the next course. They observed the table so carefully that they reversed the table setting for me, with the first course. They saw me and adapted. It opened up my heart with my stomach, and I swear it was the best meal of my life. Oh, it was called Martin Bestegue. Yes, my mom, my late step-father, and brother were there, and spending time with them was a special memory. But sometimes I’m lost in my family, a little bit invisible, but that day. I was seen, my left-handedness on display and fully embraced
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