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The Life of a Lefty



                                                                                       


I didn't choose this life, it chose me. My mom placed the crayon in my right hand, but my left hand took over when I first printed my name. After no one could read it, the crayon was placed back in my right hand again. This kept happening until my mom finally declared me a lefty, lit a cigarette, and left the room. I thought I wrote my name just fine. It wasn't until after I saw how my classmates wrote their names that I knew I was in trouble. 

When it came to sports there was a lot of confusion about which would be my throwing arm, and what batting stance I would take. Through a series of  Ed Nortonesque  twists, turns, and flicks of the wrist, I finally made some decisions. I would throw righty and bat lefty. Of course none of this really mattered, because I still couldn't throw or hit the ball further than the person standing next to me.

As I grew older, my handwriting only got worse. My cursive was once compared to an inmate on Death Row. The insult would have been less devastating if it hadn't been from my English teacher. It also didn't help that when I'd get nervous, my hands would perspire, and I'd have to turn in ink blotted papers, not to mention resembling a one handed Smurf.

Now that cursive writing is practically non-existent, I find myself printing more often. I've actually been told that my printing has improved.  Sometimes I sleep with a notepad by our bed, and scribble notes until the wee hours. Unfortunately, I often have trouble deciphering those notes in the morning.

Consequently, my husband and I were at a meeting for a committee that  reaches out to seniors. Our assignment was to report on what senior programs were available at  local churches and synagogues . The meeting had been postponed several times, so my notes were all shriveled up. When it was my turn to address the group, I referred to my notes about special activities for seniors. Then I stumbled on the last few words when I saw the initials SOT. I tried desperately to remember what SOT stood for, and then my husband glanced over my shoulder and said, "It's not SOT, it's fifty plus."

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