Monday, April 25, 2011
When Michelle and I were first dating, I lived in a small town in Iowa. I stayed in the top floor of an old building on the main street. It was a great place that I quickly trashed with my inability to clean up after myself. But when Michelle would come up to visit it would be sparkling.
We would spend most of the weekend sitting on my couch cuddling as we kind of paid attention to what was on TV. Sometimes, it would be quiet while Cheers was on in the background and Michelle would say something that you don’t ordinarily hear from two people just dating.
“Jeff, your hand’s on my boob.”
Strange, right? There are only two possible explanations. One, that is a warning for a guy who is getting too assertive. Two, It is a statement of fact alerting they guy of something he didn’t know.
It was the second option.
I can’t feel very well with my left hand. It’s always been this way. It’s hard to explain, my left hand functions pretty normally except for the fact that I can’t feel very well, and I can’t manipulate my fingers individually very well. I can feel pain and heat and tell when I’m touching something, but I can’t feel two things at once, so I can’t feel changes in texture. Basically, this means I am very right hand dominant. I went to a neurologist last year to finally find out what it was. She said I had a small stroke in the womb. Crazy. I don’t remember it.
Practically, it means I can’t go left in basketball, junior high typing class was a nightmare, I keep everything in pockets on the right side of my body, and occasionally I would accidentally feel up my wife when we were first dating.
The other way it can be a disability is in the situation where I apply for a server position at a fancy catering company that follows strict fine dining rules that require dexterity with both hands. As many who have followed my saga chronicling whether I actually had a job with a catering company know, last week I was set to go in for my real Skills Assessment test on Wednesday.
But, I wasn’t sure if I would physically be able to do it. So, last Wednesday afternoon I snuck downstairs and grabbed some plates. I brought them back up to my room to see if I could actually hold two plates in my left hand like the guy had shown at the seminar I had crashed accidentally last week. I put one in my left hand and the other on my left forearm. It was precarious to say the least. If there had been chicken marsala on those plates, there would have been chicken marsala on the bed. I tried telling my left hand what to do to no avail. I’ve waited tables before, but we had trays and didn’t worry about the fancy proper rules. Even if I passed the Skills Assessment, this would have been really stressful for me. It just wouldn’t work.
I e-mailed the Fancy Man at the catering place and told him I wouldn’t make it to the Skills Assessment test.
I didn’t want to eventually spill something expensive on someone expensive.
Nor did I ever want the Fancy Man to say to me, “Jeff, your hand’s on my boob.”