In my so-called isolation here away from all y'all, I have become dependent on your e-mails, your IMs ... I was going to say phone calls, but then I'd actually have to use the phone (which I am getting better at. Call me. You will see.). Anyway, today is one of those days where people are busy. They are "away."
And I am acting like a two-year-old left to entertain oneself in a playpen. Awful.
I'm trying to be a grown-up about it, but it's not working.
This morning I tried brushing my teeth with my left hand. You know, I figured I'd let ol' Leftie have a try in case he was feeling left out. It occurred to me then the same way the same thought had occurred to me years ago when I was like 5 or 6 and I used to watch Mr. Rogers on a daily basis.
(I do hope you're enjoying this voyage back to Danita, As a Little Girl. I wasn't odd, but I think I was definitely different and funny.)
I used to wake up and sing "It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" and toss my shoe from right hand to left hand, and even though I didn't have a cardigan I would just use my favorite shirt at the time (seen in the pic here). It had a giant toucan on it.
Yeah, Froot Loops were so good back then. Now they just make me want to have my teeth firehosed.
I had imaginary friends of course. I thought Ramona Quimby and I would've gotten along really really well, and Encyclopedia Brown could've been my sweetheart. Wouldn't it have been so cool to have Penny as a cousin and Inspector Gadget as an uncle?
Yes. It would have been very cool to me. Penny's book would've come in real handy for all those BSAP tests.
Anyway, back to the original message. This morning as I tried brushing my teeth with my left hand I started laughing at myself when I glanced up and saw myself in the mirror ... looking like a rabid dog with toothpaste foaming all over the lower half of my face.
I actually looked at my left hand like, "Damn. Can't you control yourself? Gracious."
It still puzzles me to this day how I can't spoon something with my left hand without feeling like I'm in physical therapy. I wind up concentrating so hard, my brain talking to myself vewwy vewwy swowy as I watch things hang in the balance and then topple over onto the floor, the couch, my lap or my chest.
When I was 5 and 6 I remember I'd give my left hand chores, if you will. Sometimes Leftie got allowances - like wearing the Swatch all week, but mostly I felt Leftie needed a character boost so he got tasks to complete.
Righty, this time we're going to let Leftie carry the plate to the table. No Righty. You know how to button, let Leftie do it. Okay Leftie, we're going to give Righty a break. His arm hurts today because I slept on it funny, so this morning you're in charge of brushing the teeth.
And of course -- just like this morning -- midway through Righty just had to take over since I looked like I had contracted the mange.
My dad can write with both hands. He does lots of things with both hands. He's ambidextrous. He laughed so hard at me for such a very long time when I was like, "Oh. So that's why your middle name is Dexter? It's short for ambidextrous?"
I thought he was the only person who could posses such a power.
I tried pouring things with my left hand, much to my mother's constant dismay. I would only open doors with my left hand, or reach for things with my left hand. My dad kept encouraging me to keep using it. It'll happen. Practice makes perfect.
My Leftie Bubble Letters were awesome -- "in an abstract kind of way," he said one time.
When I was 8 I learned to drive. My father felt it was important for us to have this skill, being raised in the country as we were. In case of an emergency, he felt I needed to be able to drive to the nearest hospital, which was in Easley and it took country routes and roads to get there. Perfect. In the Brown Bomber (a Chrysler Cordoba -- talk about a big car) I climbed on an almost daily basis, perched upon two pillows with the seat moved all the way up as far and as high as it could go.
And I drove with my left hand. Right off the bat. Not two hands on the wheel at 10 and 2, but just the left hand on the top of the wheel. I felt so proud of my left hand for that, too. It was the first thing I exclaimed to my dad after he gave his usual, "Don't run into that ditch" speech. "Look Daddy. I am driving with my left hand. Neat, huh."
It was a very good day when I gave the two finger wave to passers by, too. Nice and so wonderfully Southern. I still do it.
I was just a peculiar child though, looking back. I mean I was so funny -- not comedian funny, but funny as in, "What goes on inside that child's head?" funny.
In 4th grade I wrote, "Alisha's Runaway Imagination," which was about - duh - my imaginary friend Alisha and her imaginary friend all the crazy stuff they'd do and say that was really stuff that I was saying (to myself of course) and totally not able to do because I couldn't get away with it. I also illustrated the book, which was the requirement. I finally got me some Young Author's Award recognition that year. I was very proud of that, too, because I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with those judges denying me of the critical claim I so deserved year after year.
In 4th grade I also remember seeing this girl Griet Gerde for the first time. She played the violin, and was upstairs from me in junior high and I was transfixed by her red hair and how it moved with her as she played the violin. She was really into it and was fantastically talented. I just remember how the sound of her violin and all the music just filled the room. So in 5th grade, when the opportunity for me to join Strings arose, I pounced all over it and I loved it. My left arm and hand got to hold the viola. They served admirably without fail. My left hand even astounded me by learning the vibrato -- two years before I was supposedto master such a fine skill.
I had to give the viola up in 7th grade in order to take Honors Math with Mrs. Buckeye-vest-worn-with-pride Neal. I took up the alto saxophone in its place where the left hand got a li'l play action, but I had to give that up in 9th grade -- well I didn't HAVE to, but I was a volleyball player and I wasn't too into the regime of the marching band, so I gave it up feeling at the time that it was the best option. (The volleyball team at PHS has a storied legacy, an uncontested excellence, and I was excellent. All around excellent. The band, while under the instruction of the very handsome and charming Mr. Cudd, wasn't nearly as revered. Also, Mr. Cudd didn't know who I was, but Peggy Anthony made it a point to tell me how much she was looking forward to me trying out for varsity. Who doesn't like to be courted?)
In volleyball when we warmed up we had to throw and hit the ball with both hands to loosen the ol' arms up. You could clearly tell whenever we all were using our (with the exception of Nichole and Leanne) left hands because everyone's partner would have to go chasing their errantly hit balls as our assistant coach Bob bellowed at us about exercising CONTROL.
(I remember seeing this girl at the tournament of champions. She was from Alabama. We seriously were the same height and she played middle hitter and could put it down with both hands. I wanted to trade places with her. I really did. She was awesome. I wonder what happened to her. She was like the Spud Webb of volleyball to me.)
Anyway, the other night I saw this program, "The Music in Me" on HBO Family. It chronicled a bunch of kids, no older than like 12, who were profound musicians. And when I say profound. I mean profound. I am looking now to see if any of them have cds out because I will totally buy them. I am also totally envious of their talents and how they've been nourished and allowed the space and time to hone their skills. This 8-year-old boy in Louisiana is tiny. I mean he's a little 8, but you put an accordion in his arms and that li'l jokah is bonafide. I loved watching his face as he played because you could completely see how intense he was -- he was even making faces like, "Do you hear this? Do you recognize a maestro when you hear one? You ain't gon' hear this nowhere else playa." One girl was a jazz/Latin flutist (or flautist for the hoity-toity in you), another boy was a jazz trumpeter and they were SO amazing.
I was just so humbled by their talent and their enthusiasm. And they're SO GROWN. I can't imagine expressing myself like that at their age. One little boy was all philosophical about the stuff talkin' 'bout, "It's the music. It's inside you. You just have to feel it and play and just let ... just let it all come out ... don't think about it. Just play what you feel. If it's in there, it will come out. It will find its way."
He sounded like an old man on a rocking chair with an old guitar.
But those kids inspired me. I can't wait for my guitar to get here. I'm also gonna buy some reeds this weekend for the sax -- Mags is about as thrilled now as she was when I was pouring everything with my left hand :)
But I've got the music in me and I need to let it out. It's in there, dancing on the inside just like that Flashdance sequence to that song that goes, "She's a maniac, MANIAC!" (Was that Flashdance or Footloose? Either way. I got the feelin'...)
Gettin' my snap on ...
And guess what? I can do that with my left hand :) Neat, huh?