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Have a good day, everyone.
Category: Humor
Nine West Sandals
Daily writing prompt
Tell us about your favorite pair of shoes, and where they’ve taken you.
I got the sandals circa 2005. The featured image is a close representation of them but not exactly. I couldn’t find the exact model. I should have bought two pair, but I never do that. I never think of it until I no longer have the item.
Above is a photo of me opening birthday presents wearing The Sandals. Two months later I would be at the U.S. Open enjoying a night tennis match wearing these same shoes. If you’ve ever been to New York City in late August, you know it’s hot and it’s humid. And when you’re watching Rafa Nadal in a night match at the same time a baseball game and a concert are going on in the same complex, and there’s exactly one late bus to take you back to the hotel in Manhattan, you know what is about to happen.
We were watching the match in Arthur Ashe stadium. At the time, there was no roof. Arthur Ashe Stadium is the largest tennis stadium in the world. Just some random trivia for you there. I’m putting off telling you what happened to my shoes.
So, as I was saying, we were watching the match on a humid night in a stadium with no roof. We were staying in Manhattan, not Queens, where the stadium is, so I didn’t pay much attention to the weather forecast for Queens.
When it rained the first time, I wasn’t too nervous. It rained off and on throughout the match. My shoes were OK. Rafa won the match. We (herd of cattle) were all moving out of the stadium. At the same time, the baseball game and the concert were moving out of their respective building and stadium. Then it started to thunderstorm.
By the time my friend and I reached the parking lot, it was pouring. Remember I said there was one late bus to get us back to Manhattan? We couldn’t find it right away and it was about 2 AM. I believe the depart time for the bus was 2:15 AM, We were running toward the location where we thought it would be. Yes, I was running in my sandals. My beloved sandals.
We finally saw the bus. We reached it and we were drenched. I thought of my shoes, but I thought I could dry them out and everything would be fine.
And for the most part, they were. But over a few years, they started to dry rot. One summer day, I reached for them, took them out of their shiny box. It was white with black lettering. The sandal straps were stretched out. And rotted.
I said goodbye to my strappy sandals that day. I never tried to replace them, but there are a few out there that look similar. But they will never be my Nine West strappy wedge heeled sandals that sat through a night match at the U.S. Open and ran through a thunderstorm to a bus waiting to take me back to Manhattan.
RIP sandals.
Oh, in case you’re wondering, this is the match:
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved
The Traveler – Prequel / I
I stared blankly at the large screen, its words flashing directly above my head. Even the ambience of normal airport noise couldn’t distract me from gawking, nor could common decency intervene to close my gaping hole of a mouth. I blinked four times to clear my vision, hoping to be jolted from this inconvenient day-mare. Nope, it didn’t work. The stupid thing still read “Flight 221 to Heathrow— Cancelled.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” I scream-whined out of frustration. “Grr….” There were several older, very obviously American tourist ladies congregating nearby, all donned in matching Campbell plaid vests, white shirts with lace cravats and some kind of touristy kilt-like skirt for women—again in Campbell plaid—looking at me as if I had been raised in a barnyard. Well, I did just growl out of frustration, I’ll give ’em that, but I was not decked out in a medium-weight wool. In July. In New York. I smiled apologetically (because they looked so cheerful and silly), and waved, ensuring them I was not about to attack. They turned slowly back to their maps and itineraries, though by their wary glances it seemed likely they were still not quite sure if I was harmless or not. Right about then I felt like I had been reared in a barn and not given any coping skills with which to manage this crisis, rather than the unremarkable, pleasant upbringing that l experienced in actuality. It must’ve been the heat and that promotion to Account Manager, effective immediately, that was getting to me. “Okay, let’s not freak out, Maisie. You can totally deal with this minor setback. This has happened to you before and it got sorted out rather easily. Piece of cake.” I tugged at my suit to straighten it, pivoted on my heel, and, with confidence, stomped straight to the ticket counter–then back again when I realized I had forgotten my trusty carry-on bag, which was packed with such impressive efficiency that I didn’t need a suitcase (not that l’m bragging very much). I was very proud of my ability to travel lightly, even with my camera equipment and occasional costumes I usually only required one additional checked bag. I smiled smugly to myself as I hoisted the strap over my shoulder and proceeded to the ticket counter for real this time.
The skill of packing efficiently didn’t arrive overnight, that’s for sure. I had acquired a lot of practice improving upon my technique as an assistant photographer and costume historian who traveled extensively, photographing period costumes for magazines, books, private collectors and any other organization that was willing to pay the big bucks to my employer, renowned worldwide. Talk about an awesome job–and now that I’d gotten the promotion I’d strived for three years to achieve, I felt even more enthusiastic about the future…and the past.
So now began the true test. With the promotion came complete responsibility for this plumb new assignment in England that we’d bid on and won. In addition to having another person to help on assignments–the flighty but surprisingly efficient Julie, who wouldn’t be catching up with me for three more days, the promotion meant I was placed in charge of the whole job, start to finish. So, sorry for being frazzled, but I didn’t want to blow it before even leaving the U.S.
I was traveling to Bath (or “Baaath” as the English call it), to a small costume museum that, in a few weeks, was having a grand opening for the public to come in and view the collection. I was hired, or rather my employer was hired, and I was sent, to catalogue each piece before being displayed and to verify the years and styles of certain pieces that seemed to stump everyone else. I questioned my boss about the authenticity of a historic costume museum just opening now, in the 21st century, but he assured me that most of the pieces were acquired through private collectors over decades, if not centuries. It seems that the owners of the museum, an esteemed, pedigreed family of the area, had finally acquired a large enough collection to open it to the public, which was their intention all along. In fact, I was anticipating the initial meeting of these seemingly benevolent folks at the museum very much. The problem was that it was scheduled for 10 a.m. local time and so…
Damn it if this flight was going to be cancelled on me now!
I had a crucial meeting to attend to, and I was nothing if not punctual.
I shook off my slight frown along with my thoughts and stared at the wisp of a girl in front of me as she barely cleared the top of the ticket counter. I wondered if she was old enough to be employed. She wore an expectant, annoyed expression, as if she had said something brilliant and was waiting for me to respond.
I almost had to look down on her; at five foot eight, I was nearly towering over the poor thing. “Hi, how are you? Yeah, my flight’s been cancelled and I need to get to England. ASAP.”
“Ticket, please,” she demanded in a surprisingly deep monotone. I handed it over dutifully. Do as you’re told and no one gets hurt, Maisie. “Flight 440 leaves in an hour for Gatwick. That’s all I have.” She looked so bored. I began to think they weren’t paying her enough to even be civil, or that perhaps she hadn’t yet been taught manners in kindergarten.
“Okay then, Sunshine, give it to me.” Two hours later I was on my way to jolly, old England. Notice I said two hours later; it seems Sunshine was a bit off on her time estimates, after all. As I nuzzled peacefully down in my seat, I sighed once and thought of the exciting journey ahead before I settled down into one of my favorite pastimes—sleeping. I passed the seven hours delightfully dozing.
Stay tuned for The Traveler – Prequel / II!
Go to where it all started: The Traveler
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved
image credit
Kevin at: thebeginningatlast9.wordpress.com
The Traveler
Once again, I am participating in Kevin’s No Theme Thursday 2/15/24 edition.
I wrote this story a long time ago and have not developed it further. It was another book idea just like last week’s story. I’ve tweaked it so that it can appear along with this picture that instantly reminded me of my story. Thanks for giving my story a home, Kevin!
Edit: all of the installments of the story have been published. Before you read The Traveler, read Prequels I-IV. Then read The Traveler, then the Sequel. I will put the links below. It will make more sense if you do it that way, as these were Chapters 1-6 of a book I haven’t finished.
Read The Traveler Prequel I first, here
Next, The Traveler Prequel II, here
Then The Traveler Prequel III here
Next, The Traveler Prequel IV here
Now read The Traveler, the story you in right now. It starts below.
After reading the story below, you are ready to read The Traveler sequel here
And that is where the story ends – for now. Thanks everyone for reading and supporting my almost-book. 🫶
✨
As I stepped off the curb, I wondered why I had agreed to repair the gowns, and then, why I didn’t just travel the four blocks to my hotel. While I was trying to avoid tripping over my feet, I looked to the left for vehicles coming toward me. Problem is, I was in England.
Stepping out into traffic and looking the wrong way, well, I didn’t see the black blur that was suddenly next to me—on me — is a more apt description.
I lay in the road with people milling around me for several minutes before I came to. A sharp, rich, English-accented, male voice bellowed, “Doctor! We need a doctor at once!” My eyes shot open in alarm when I realized he was most likely calling the doctor for me. I saw blurry figures peering down at me, with one leaning over, precariously close to toppling. Confused, I closed my eyes again and wondered with a goofy smile if every man in Heaven spoke with a British accent. Heaven would be just fine in my book, if so. Suddenly sleepy, my eyes stayed lazily shut as I gave into the drowsy, light feeling.
“Madam! No! Do not shut your eyes! You must keep them open or you might never open them again!” A crisp, rich voice ordered stiffly. Who is this guy? His piercing voice is disrupting my nighty-night time, I thought as I tried snuggling into my blankets. I reached for them, but when I did, I felt no blankets, no cozy warmth. No covers? Why don’t I have any sheets on my bed?! I cracked one eye open to survey.
“Eeks! I’m lying in the middle of the freaking road!” I screeched as I bolted and sat upright, immediately regretting that sudden move, as the searing pain in my right arm caused the nausea to rise in my stomach in a flash and I froze to avoid vomiting.
“Madam, do not move!” It was The Voice again.
“Oww, my arm really hurts,” I croaked out after the nausea had passed. I squinted my blurry eyes in the direction of the guy with the cool voice, but I didn’t see anyone there.
“Clear the way, the physician is coming through,” Mr. Voice ordered the onlookers. His authority seemed to do the trick. As I surveyed my bum arm, I heard the bustle of the crowd as they parted. Wow, this guy must have pull in some major quantities.
“Oww,” I hissed at the pain and decided to leave my arm alone. My head hurt, too, but with my left hand I couldn’t find any gashes on my face or head —that was a good thing. Maybe I have a concussion. “I so don’t need a concussion while in England. My insurance will not cover this,” I mumbled to myself. Feeling less nauseous, I tried to crawl-unnoticed-to the my bag that I had with me when I was hit. My sight was still a bit fuzzy, but Mr. Voice could see me, apparently.
“And where are you going?” he asked with mild interest. I stopped mid-crawl and smiled up at the blurry face sheepishly.
“Over here to check on my bag?” I offered helpfully.
“No, you most certainly are not. The doctor is here to examine you for bodily harm following your accident,” he answered simply. He placed his hand on my shoulder gently but firmly, to let me know I was not moving another inch.
“Okay, whatever.” I shrugged and glanced up at the face with the somehow familiar voice. He was so close now that I could make out his features with ease.
“It’s you!” And it was him-Nicholas Langdon, Royal Pain in the Ass, from the museum. Same chocolate brown eyes, same dark brown hair, same hot bod, same voice… It all made sense now.
“Nick Langdon.” I narrowed my left eye and gave him the once over. Okay, the thrice over.
He blinked three times. “Pardon me, madam?” He asked quietly with large, disbelieving chocolate candy coin eyes. “I am quite certain we have never met before.” He studied me for a few seconds. “How do you know my name?” he asked with thinly veiled interest. He had the nerve to sound ruffled!
“Ha! That’s a good one, Nick. Not twenty minutes ago you gave me orders not to destroy the gowns!” I rolled my eyes and studied him closely, my vision finally focusing enough to scan my immediate surroundings, which, at present consisted of one handsome but irritating Langdon and one older man with a sadistic streak who carried a black physician’s bag.
“Ouch! That hurts…doctor.” I said suspiciously as I narrowed my eyes at the dude carrying the bag.
“Sorry, dear. Please do stop moving,” he pleaded with an exasperated sigh.
“Right. Say, Nick…what’s with the get-ups you two are wearing?” I nodded first to him and then in the direction of the doctor. He didn’t answer me immediately, rather, he looked at me blankly for several seconds. I looked him over closely. Somehow he and the doc had gotten their hands on some darn good Victorian costumes. If he swiped those from the museum and he’s yelling at me for repairing two gowns, l’ll deck him. I fumed to myself. Still, it was a gorgeous outfit. I tried not to gawk.
All topped off with a top hat, naturally. Nice, very nice, indeed.
The jerk looked dashing. The doctor was similarly outfitted but not nearly as scrumptious.
“Excuse me, Madam, but I don’t know of what you are speaking. Perhaps you are out of sorts now you have been struck by the carriage-“
“Carriage? Carriage?”
“Yes. Carriage.”
“Is that what you people call them?” I snorted.
We looked at each other as if neither one of us spoke the other’s language.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he said slowly so I could follow. “As I was saying, perhaps you are out of sorts since your…er…accident.”
“Don’t get condescending with me, Langdon,” I pointed at him and frowned at the doctor who forced me to look up and down, side to side, following his gloved finger.
“What is your name, madam?” The doctor asked warmly.
“Maisie Reynolds.”
“Miss Reynolds, can you tell me today’s date, with the year included, if you please?” The doctor winked conspiratorially at Langdon, as if he were on the precipice of curing me. Knowing the date was not going to help fix my arm. And even if I had a concussion, I wasn’t suffering from amnesia. I wished someone would call an ambulance for goodness sake.
“It’s August 12th, ’05.” I answered drolly. Duh.
“Ah, ha! There is the problem, my dear!” The doctor exclaimed.
“It’s August 12th, yes, but the year isn’t ’05, it’s 1904.”
Langdon said smugly, apparently overjoyed that he could break this news to me.
I did a double-take right there on the ground. And then I laughed and laughed. I wiped my eyes as the tears streamed down.
“Nick you really got me with this, I’ll hand it to you. 1904.
Carriages. Top hats and Morning suits. What a hoot! And look, you even got Doc here to participate in your theatrics. And that woman over there…look at her gown! Isn’t it fabulous—” My voice trailed off.
I glanced around me as quickly as I could with a pounding headache and noticed then that the entire street was authentically 1904-ish.
There were old cars, cobbled streets, finely dressed ladies and gentlemen mingling with the poorest, grimiest-looking of the poor. There were cozy storefronts, an open market, and a very real stench of coal.
“Amazing, just amazing. Nick, this is one hell of a recreation.
Is this all for the grand opening?” I looked up at him with wide eyes, completely convinced he was a genius – a sexist pig genius.
Nick shared a look of concern with the doctor who was rummaging through his black bag for something to wrap my elbow with.
“Er-” Nick waffled.
“What?” I felt a sense of foreboding all of the sudden, like I had entered the Twilight Zone.
Nick crouched down and took my left hand gently. His eyes were mesmerizing and so kind. Okay, I thought, now I know I have a concussion.
“Mrs. Reynolds-“
I shook my head. “No. Not ‘Mrs., “Miss. Doc was right the first time when he addressed me as ‘Miss. Mrs. Reynolds is my mother.”
Nick gasped slightly. “And you travel alone, without a chaperone?”
I scrunched my face up in confusion. “Huh? Why would ! need a chaperone? I’m thirty, for God’s sake!”
“I see…” A look of amusement passed over his face, but just as quickly, Nick put his business face back on. “Miss Reynolds, I am Nicholas Langdon—”
“YEAH, I knoooow… What is going on Langdon?” I frowned at his latest Captain Obvious act; he could do so much better.
“Ahh, I do not know how you know my name, as it is quite apparent by your manner of speech and dress that you are not from London nor from England, and you must have only arrived here very recently judging from this unusual bag which you carry.” He pointed to my bag as it lay in the muddy puddles of the cobblestone street. How’d they get the streets from tar to cobblestone that quicky?
“Great. So we’ve gone from Captain Obvious to Sherlock Holmes,” I said dryly. “And you’re the one with memory loss if you don’t remember me at all, Nick.”
He jerked his hand away. “I am called Cole by my friends.”
He buffed an already pristine-looking button on his coat. “As I was saying, you have suffered a head injury of some kind-” They nodded in agreement, over eagerly, I might add. “—As a result of the carriage impacting you as you attempted to navigate the street here.” He gestured with his big hat head toward the street I was currently residing on. The doctor finished his examination and declared me “confused.” I rolled my eyes as I sat there contemplating the obvious decline in the state of health care.
He knelt down to my level again, bringing those eyes back in full view. Be still my racing heart! “You need rest. You will feel better tomorrow, the doctor has assured me. He could find nothing wrong with you—”
“Yeah, I guess he couldn’t out here in the middle of the street instead of in a hospital with diagnostic tests and modern equipment…”
Nick sighed. “Where are you staying? Please allow me to escort you there,” he said with genuine chivalry. Hmm… I think I like this 1904 Nick much better. Can we keep him after the grand opening has ended?
But it was all an illusion-some kind of cruel game. It slowly, fully registered that Nick Langdon was beyond mean and nasty. He was leading me to believe I was going crazy. An elaborate hoax was underway to trip me into insanity, and all because he didn’t trust in my abilities. His sisters told me the whole story of how furious he was when his father chose to go with my employer rather than a British company. So this was his attempt at forcing me off of the assignment; he assumed he could convince his father to accept the bid from the other company once he had proven me unstable, and my employer incompetent. Well, I had news for Langdon-I wasn’t going anywhere but back to my hotel room to rest up for tomorrow’s work.
I shook my head. “No, I don’t need your assistance, Cole. I can find my way back to my hotel unaided, thank you. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow, and I fully expect to be at work.”
“Work?” His luxurious eyes were as wide as half-dollars.
“Oh, come on now. Enough with the act-you know exactly what I’m talking about!” I stood slowly, picked up my bags with my good arm and took a deep breath. I looked Nick/Cole over one last time to fully appreciate his fine masculinity dressed up in an early 20th century day suit once more; that is, before this hoax was revealed. Such a shame it would all be over when the ruse was lifted. I sighed and turned to go, but I didn’t get far.
Cole grabbed my arm gently and turned me to face him.
“You know, madam, it is not safe to… work…the streets…do you need money? I can help you to find a respectable home to lodge in, I’m sure…” he whispered. His eyes and lips so close to my face mesmerized me for a time, so that I didn’t register what he said-at first.
“What?! You think I’m a prostitute?” This had to be the worst insult he had slung at me yet. And I made quite a scene about it, too. For all his attempts at discretion, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “That’s right, when I’m not working ninety hours a week as a Costume Historian and Photographer, I’m a street walker! Is that what you truly believe about me?” People were stopping and staring by this point and Cole shared conspiratorial looks with Doc before gently nudging me toward what I assumed was his car. I plopped down hard on the seat and he gracefully sat across from me. “I’m sorry, Miss Reynolds, I misunderstood your words a moment ago. Forgive me. Please allow me to escort you to your dwellings.”
He looked so damned sincere and I was tired of arguing with him. Plus, my arm and head hurt. “OK, fine. It’s only four blocks from here.” He told the driver where to go and we were off. I was certain the scenery would change back to modern day once we reached my hotel and that cool Cole would morph back into nasty Nick. We jiggled and bumbled along in the car, with an awkward silence between us. I felt my expression of awe turn into a frown as we reached the end of the third block and there was no change in scenery. To be honest, I was more than a little concerned for my mental state.
“Umm, Cole? This…this is my hotel here,” I lied. I took a quick, desperate survey of the street and saw a quaint establishment with vacancies. The rising panic in my gut made me want to bolt out of the car and run as far as I could, to anywhere that would lead me back to 2005.
Cole peered up at the two-story building just ahead on the right and called for his man to stop the carriage. “Are you certain this is the correct place?” He sounded concerned, but it looked fine to me. Besides, I had to remind myself, this is all an illusion, anyway.
“Miss Reynolds, this establishment doesn’t seem proper somehow. Why don’t you let me arrange a lodging for you-” Cole grimaced up at the shutters, that, upon closer inspection, were in obvious need of repair. The one on the left looked as if it would fall at any second and crush both of us flat like pancakes. The front door was a tattered, peeling shade of faded cobalt blue and the ground floor window was so grimy I couldn’t see through it. “Uhhh-” I hesitated. Even in make-believe land I did NOT want to lodge there.
Cole nodded and seemed to understand my reticence immediately. He called to his driver at once and we drove off. “I cannot allow you to stay here. We will call on someone whom I think will have plenty of space for you to stay until you decide otherwise.” Chivalrous Cole was a welcome relief and soothed me a bit, although the fact that the scenery did not change from 1905 to 2005 at all in the course of driving to his friend’s house was worrisome. About ten minutes into the uncomfortably silent journey, and after much thoughtful deliberation with myself, I decided that I would go with the flow and accept it all as a reality.
If I did have a concussion, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, anyway. Maybe I’d have to wait until the swelling in my brain went down and I suddenly snapped out of it. Or maybe it was all a dream and I’d wake up at any minute. Regardless, I couldn’t think about it anymore. I was in 1904 and I would savor the experience as if it were real, until it was not real.
And, if I were truly dancing gaily around in the fields of madness, then, hey, being crazy was looking as promising as the huge stone mansion we were approaching after twenty-five minutes of bumping along in the car, both of us ignoring the amazing zing in the air when our knees bumped as we rolled to a halt.
To be continued…?
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©️2024, itsamyisaid.com
Budgeting, The Experience
I would like to demonstrate for you all how I budget. The following is an artistic representation of my budgeting practices.
I’m more of an Eagles fan
I mean, the Patriots are fine. But really, Detroit has the best uniforms. That blue and silver is superb. I’m just not much of a football fan.
Oh. This isn’t about football, is it? Huh.
Have a great day, everyone.
The Dress Code
Several times, in fact. Having inherited my maternal family’s fashion instincts, I’m a rebel. But I must warn you, only the first time was unintentional. All of the rest were intentional.
I’m sure it all started when I was a toddler and my mom made me dresses that made all the other toddlers envious.
And it continued from there. In high school, I had all the latest fashions. I regularly wore crop tops with leggings and high boots. I created my own signature style. I remember distinctly one day I wore a crocheted white crop top sweater over a crop top tank with jeans. I was sent to the principal’s office by a teacher. She wasn’t even my teacher. She was a teacher standing in the hall, looking me up and down disapprovingly. She told me I should go into my classroom and get my things and go immediately to the principal‘s office. I walked into my classroom and I told everyone what just happened.
I ended up in the vice principal‘s office. I sat in the chair across from her desk, and she asked me if I knew what I had done wrong. I said no. She said my outfit was inappropriate. I asked why. She said my stomach is showing. I have a 23-inch waist, and the styles were meant to show off your waist. Just like they are now. Fashion always comes back around again. Remember that. (I didn’t say that but that’s what I was thinking.) She said she was going to call my mother at work. She asked me what her phone number was. First of all, they should have that on file. Secondly, I started to giggle. She didn’t like that. I told her to call my mom, but my mom had bought the outfit. for me, so… She didn’t like that either. I told her the number and I waited for her to call my mother.
“Yes, ma’am, do you know what your daughter is wearing to school today?
Yes, it is a white sweater that is cropped and showing her belly.
I see. Well, she can’t wear this. She has to go home and change.”
She hung up the phone. “Your mother said she bought that for you and she thought you looked very nice in it this morning when you left the house.”
I smirked.
“You can’t wear that. You have to go home and change, and then you have to come right back.”
I went back to my classroom pissed off. I got there and I told everyone what happened. “She says I have to go home and change and then come back.” My peers thought that was ridiculous. Some of them were hiding crop tops underneath their jean jackets.
I walked home, which was pretty far considering I took the bus to school. I don’t know what I put on, but it wasn’t as nice as what I had on when I left the first time. I did end up walking back to school. I didn’t cut class.
That was the first documented occasion of a dress code offense.
I’ve had several more at work places. I do not apologize for it. If they want me to change my clothes, I will. But I will always try to be fashionable first.
One time, I had a cute plaid jumper short set. I wish I would’ve kept that outfit. But anyway, I wore that to the job that I had while I was in college. All the ladies in the kitchen design department were up in arms. I was violating the code, my boss and owner of the store at the time told me. I said, “I can’t help it, I have to be fashionable.” He didn’t make me go home and change, but I dressed slightly more boring after that.
A couple years later, I graduated with a major in fashion and a minor in theater/costuming. No one is going to take away my fashion. My mother encouraged me to dress uniquely and fashionably while living on a budget. She set the example, I’m just following. It’s a form of art expression. And I’ll never give it up.
There is a famous saying by Coco Chanel: “I don’t do fashion, I am fashion.” One year for my birthday, my former manager at my current job bought me a journal with that saying on the cover. I’ve used up the entire journal, but I saved the hard-bound part with the saying on it. I have it on display in my house.
This how I break the law (un)intentionally and I am not about to stop.
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com
My Funny Valentine
On being left-handed
Any fellow southpaws out there?
I’ve been thinking about making this post for a while. I’m not going to get super scientific. Just a few facts.
The world is made for right handed people. Left-handed scissors? Crap. I’ve had to teach myself how to use right handed scissors, and now I can’t even use left-handed scissors. Every door knob, handle, appliance is geared for a right handed person. Think about hand crank can openers and feel my pain.
Left-handed people are relatively rare in society. About 10% of the population is left-handed. Even more rare are female lefties. Believe me, when I see a fellow female lefty, I get excited. It doesn’t happen often.
Both of my parents were born left-handed, and both were switched at a young age at school due to the belief at the time that being left-handed was the sign of the devil. In the middle ages, being left-handed was thought to be witchcraft. Luckily, my parents didn’t subscribe to either one of these beliefs and allowed me to be my left-handed self. One of my brothers is left-handed. I’m searching my brain for anyone else in my family who is left-handed and I’m coming up with nobody.
For certain sports, there is an advantage to playing left-handed. In tennis there is a clear advantage. Rafael Nadal is a right- handed person. But he plays tennis left-handed. I’m not very familiar with baseball, but I think there is also an advantage of batting left-handed.
There seems to be genetic differences between being right-handed and being left-handed. Left-handers may have superior verbal skills, but scientists still don’t know. All I know is do not ask me to do math.
You can always see a lefty coming. Ask them to show you their pinky and side of their left hand – the part that touches the paper.
Let me know in the comments if you are also left-handed! 👈
Gravity
If you had the power to change one law, what would it be and why?
Because cats.
“It's Amy,” I said. 