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“For six months now I’ve been using only my right hand. (See the block lettering of this journal. Some parts illegible. My p’s look like q’s. My i’s blend into my u’s. Scribbles. Got to get a laptop.)
“I’m supposedly left handed. Or, so I’ve foolishly been led to believe most of my life. Whether or not I can switch and go ‘natural’ at age 39-something or other, PJ (Private Journal), remains to be seen. I’ll give it the old college try. My best right foot forward. Tired of being out in left field (catching flies).
“I’ve been keeping my left hand tucked in my pocket, or I sit on it out of sight. Usually I keep it buttoned up inside my shirt. (I get funny looks when I bowl but that’s the price I’m willing to pay for my experiment in getting to be the true person I’m meant to be. Right on!)
“When I go to a restaurant (there’s a bistro nearby for Right Handed Persons Only! called Right Side O’Tracks Cafe) I fumble and dribble a bit with the spoon and fork, but I’ve finally – through practice makes perfect (and just the right amount of sugarcoated joshing from wait staff) – mastered the butter knife. There’s also a little difficulty with my zipper, but what are friends for anyway?)
“At night I have my offending hand tied to the bed post. My landlord, an understanding guy, ties me up. (He says he’s ambidextrous – yeah, sure.) Less you think ill of me, PJ, my ‘bondage’ has nothing to do with preventing daily diddling my way into dreamland. (Hey! My right hand does know what my left hand is, er, was doing.) And, yeah, I do manage to doze off, even if turning over front to back, or back to front leaves me in knots.
“Occasionally PJ, yes, yes, yes! I get twisted up in the sheets. But what the hell. I’ve never been a sound sleeper anyhoo. (ASIDE: my sleep apnea seems worse. My snoring louder. One or two nightmares about chain gangs. It’ll pass I’m told. Hang in there. Bite the bullet. Pray. Think positive thoughts. Left is wrong. Right is right! Hup to! Heave ho! Jesus loves you!)
“I’m taking what I call ‘my biblical right to curb and cure my misguided choice’, for as I’ve been told again and again by my – somewhat overly insistent, militantly right-handed neighbors – who never cease patriotically bragging to every so-called southpaw person they meet: ‘Using your left hand isn’t natural. The truth of the matter is that you choose to use it. You can unchoose your choice if you choose to unchoose it. It’s your choice, even ‘tho you think it’s not a choice. Choose for yourself and see. The choice is yours to choose.’
“PJ: I’ve always thought that some guys are born left handed. It’s a matter of genes, DNA, chromosomes, sibling pecking order. Nature not nurture. (Or nookie early on, for that matter.) Oh, no! As my mighty-right do-righters point out again and again the straightforward fact is that I’ve been leading the god-awful Southpaw Life Style. Seeking out buddies and bowling partners who are lefties. Hanging out in leftist fast lanes . . .
“PJ: believe me it could be worse. Five percent of left handers are – would you believe – gay. (It’s bad enough they choose to be left handed.) Thank God I’m not ‘that way’. Hopefully my handwriting and bowling will improve. If only those god-damned chain gang dreams would leave me alone.”