“Left out,” indeed.

Posted on April 14, 2011


I’d like to take this opportunity–pause for a moment, as I climb atop my soapbox–to educate you all about a problem that plagues me to a deeply personal extent.

I have come too far in life not to acknowledge it.

There have been too many awkward dinner table shuffles, pencil smears, guitar lesson woes and elbowings of strangers to not make mention.

Here goes nothing–I’m outing myself. As a left-handed person.

So there have been highs–like being added to the long list of left-handed geniuses smart people (still a stretch). But there have been many, many lows.

Now, I don’t want to go all “oh my God, it’s so hard being a marginalized member of a society that doesn’t mass-produce scissors or spiral-bound notebooks to suit me” (#firstworldproblems) on anyone, but being uniquely jointed isn’t always favorable.

Really, the word sinister–see: unfavorable, evil, accompanied by or leading to disaster–derives from the Latin word for “left.” EVEN THE ROMANS HATED US.

Combine that with being a ginger, and you might as well call me the bane of every conformist’s existence.

No bull–I’m swimming in a pool of recessive genes deeper than the damn Mariana Trench. As the only curly-headed, pale ginger in an otherwise olive-skinned, straight-haired, dirty blond/brunette, right-handed family, I’m considered the malformed one.

God bless my grandchildren.

What’s more, my left-handedness can be quite the pest. Like wearing Crocs to the beach. Awkward, uncomfortable, and just plain unsightly.

While I write, my hand looks like it’s no longer attached to my forearm/suggests that I might be part-undead/resembles what Hook’s would look like if his Hook were hand-shaped. Not even Obama could make this look en vogue.

I epitomize the term “throws like a girl.” I am a proud closet feminist, but I couldn’t throw a ball to save a life. Don’t blame me, though! Blame all the righties who tried to get me to do it their way.

As much as I could thank them for contributing to my impressive ambidexterity, I prefer to prematurely scoff at them for making me the center of public humiliation in any softball game I may play as an adult.

Thanks, coaches. That’s what I have to look forward to?! After a childhood of smudged essays and general indecision?!

AND I’m the a-hole who sits on the left end of a completely vacant row in class and forces people to straddle her while sticking their tushes in her face. It’s my only option if I want a left-handed desk.

Hey, haters, it’s worse for me. Imagine getting ushered into an mostly empty auditorium for the Oscars but being forced to sit next to Pauly Shore.

Not that Pauly Shore has the theatrical acumen to ever get invited to the Oscars. He’s that bad. Hence my point.

But all in all, despite the discomfort, I wouldn’t give my left-handedness back for any different birthright (or early 20th century-era forced right-handedness). I’m happy to be a genetic mutant, as my 24-year-old sister would say (REAL MATURE, LAURA), because it still sets me apart.

I mean, how many pale, curly-haired, left-handed, hilarious, blogging gingers have you met?