Folks have been known to comment that I don’t seem as heavy as I am because I tend to move around like a lighter person, very possibly defying the laws of physics and anatomy. I don’t know how that all works, but I do know that I hate it when a fat girl lumbers around, clumping like a draft horse or something.
Also, I’m surprisingly flexible, considering that I don’t really do anything towards that end. One of the weirdest moments of my life was during my sophomore year in phys ed when we were taking the rather torturous President’s Fitness tests and I was one of the first people up to take the flexibility test. After weeks of halfhearted lame scores (run for half an hour? No? Why are we doing this again? To find out if we can? I’ll answer this right now: I can’t. I won’t. In what world does that make sense? Maybe if there were a clown chasing me or something), suddenly there was Weetabix outshining the entire class, even the jocks. The only person who came close to my score was a girl jock who had scored the highest for at least a third of the tests. The gym teacher (Dick Cheney, I so totally hope you google yourself) was perplexed. The fat girl scoring highest in the class? The fat girl who plans her sick days to coincide with phys ed days? The fat girl????
He called my name and made me take it again, while the entire class (including hot junior BOYS) watched. This time, I was able to stretch three inches farther. For all the fat girls everywhere.
But, in exchange for the illusion of grace, I have the yang of being weirdly self-destructive. I don’t really know how that works, exactly. When I played volleyball, I managed to go full seasons without ever taking a header in the sand, but at the same time, I dislocated my shoulder in the midst of a rather spectacular spike. Two weekends ago, while dancing like a mad fool on the Bad Bar’s Windowsill, I jammed my right hand down against something, giving me a nice swollen and purple contusion on my middle finger and I spent the rest of the night keeping ice on it. For further proof, see Evidence #21B: the knee.
At some point in the last several days, I hurt my thumb. I’m not really sure how exactly that happened. I suspect it involved something very non-glamourous, such as slamming my car door or hoisting a hamper of laundry or perhaps transporting our gluttonous cat. Regardless, it hurts. And thus, I whine.
Weetabix : My thumb hurts.
Esteban : What hurts?
Weetabix : My thumb.
Esteban : I know, but what part?
Weetabix : The thumby part! The part that is my thumb!
Esteban : Weetabix’ You’re an English major, perhaps you could be more specific.
Weetabix : From the tip of my thumb down to the part that is NOT MY THUMB!
Esteban: Oh, you are so difficult.
Weetabix : Gah!
Mars, venus, blahety blah blah. Have I had a stroke and my aphasia has replaced the word ‘thumb’ with the word for, say’ Australia? Regardless, apparently whining takes stamina. Which, ironically, makes my thumb hurt.
I keep hurting it myself, quite honestly. I forget that it hurts and then do something with my thumb and then my sore thumb says ‘Hi! Fuck you very much!’. The thumb is more important than one would think. In fact, it’s the very thing that let us evolve. Without thumbs, the world might just be run by giant Lemurs, walking around with cell phones, driving BMWs.
Which makes me laugh, because you just know that even a lemur behind the wheel of a Beemer is going to have an ulcer and also be a bit of a prick.
Originally, I was left-handed but my stepfather conspired with my kindergarten teacher (who was very proud about having taught fewer than 1% left handed children) to send me through life with a pencil firmly embedded in my right hand. Therefore, I use things engineered for right-handed folks (pens, computer mouse, scissors, etc) with my right hand but automatically favor my left for most other things. Suffice to say, this is a very important thumb. It’s the thumb that unbuttons my jeans when I have to pee. It’s the thumb that holds the remote control. It’s the thumb that rocked Cleveland. It’s the thumb that loves you, baby. It’s a great thumb.
I miss my thumb.
Also a bit that serves no real entertainment value, but I want it here to remind myself: I made a trip to the Hundred Dollar Store on Sunday and managed to spend only $21. I know. I’m flabbergasted. I suspect the success was due to the fact that I had complete and utter apathy and also, was heading to the lighting display but instead turned really sudden and checked out at the returns desk. The element of surprise! Quite profitable.
