I know from murmurs the bane of the left-hander’s existence. I know the arguments for equality remain moot in the righty’s world—and I feel for them. Having been born plagued with a dominant right hand, I cannot know their strife. Yes, I fully agree that you deserve a left-handed computer mouse.
However, it has come to my attention in recent years, growing ever more obvious, that I am left-legged. Socially, I feel it has set me apart from the crowd—and not in a good way—and for all my appearances-based empathy for the lefty’s movement (the empathy has a limit—there are college scholarships for the left-handed for Pete’s sake!), I cannot help but think with disgust when my dissimilarity emerges, “I’m NOT one of them!”
How do you cross your legs? Right over left, I’ll wager. I can’t do that. I feel like that Visa debit card commercial that airs so often…this big choreographic show, synchronized to a jaunty tune …and then there’s me disturbing the chorus line. I try to cross my right over my left and continue the lower-body wave down the row of my social party, the domino effect (if you will)…and I wobble unsteadily over my left cheek (you know the one) who is seeped in anxiety over my reassignment of weight. I paste a smile on my face and fight for balance…but it never comes and I make a play for nebulosity as I uncross my legs with practiced calm.
But uncrossed leaves me feeling ever the savage in civilized society, and instinctively, I cross my legs, left over right, kicking my right-side companion and smiling crookedly, eyes laden with unshed tears begging, not to be outed. I hang my head low, and as though I were the pitiable face of a Basset Hound, even my ears seem to droop. It’s so hard being different.