Self-confidence isn’t much of an issue for me. There’s very little about myself that I’d change if I had the opportunity. Sure, my belly-button is a little further from my spine than I’d like it to be, but I like to think I’m a decent looking guy with no major facial deformities or lacerations (excluding those caused by Cheeky’s unclipped nails). I’m reasonably smart, fairly well-read, can make it up stairs without passing out from exhaustion, and have almost all my hair.
There’s one thing, however, that drives me crazy. I can’t hold onto things to save my life.
Whenever I pick something up I clutch onto it like Charlton Heston's rifle. At any second there is an enormous risk that whatever I’m holding will not only experience a sudden burst of gravity, but will ricochet off several walls, cabinets, traffic signs, or random birds flying by before entering the debris field I leave behind me. And I just can't get 38 Special out of my head. It’s embarrassing, and I can’t figure out why.
I’ve got some theories on it. Here’s what we’ve come up with so far:
- I have frictionless fingers: I can’t tell you how many times I stare in wonder at the rubble beneath me and wonder how it got there. I was POSITIVE I had a grip on it, but there it is, mocking me from the floor. Only a bite from a radioactive spider can help if this is the case.
- My nerves don’t work: This is Oodgie’s theory. She thinks I can’t feel how much or little pressure I’m using. It’s an interesting theory, actually, except that all my others nerves seem to work, especially the ones in my toes. Perhaps I should get tested for heightened levels of Novocain in my system
- I don't pay attention: What? Did you say something?
- I’m a clumsy oaf: Maybe I’m a klutz in denial. I have been known, on occasion, to walk into solid walls and trip over crumbs or quarks (only the top quarks, mind you). I discount this theory because that doesn’t work with my self-image, and I haven’t really injured myself since I kneed myself in the nose. Don’t ask.
- God hates me: Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word. Perhaps this is just a way of teaching me humility. After all, something has to karmicly balance my perfectly round ass.
Whatever the reason, it haunts me. I’m either concentrating so hard that I could lift the X-Wing trapped in the bog, or I’m impersonating Dave Kreig. You’d think I just learned to use my hands or something!
What’s the solution? As always, duct tape. My silver, bandaged hands would suddenly become Mits of Stick. Sure, I’d probably pick up stray objects without realizing it, such as mailboxes or armoires, and I wouldn’t recommend asking me to bring you tissues, but it would go a long way towards reducing the falling objects and cursing which currently threaten Cheeky’s fragile little head. Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?
I’ll just have to make sure I’m careful about where I scratch and wipe. Honey…a little help?