I’m not quite sure how I feel about lefties.
Part of me wants to look at them as a separate race. Why are they different from the rest of us? Why can’t they just conform? Do they feel that they are so special that they deserve their own desks and their own scissors?
The other part of me wants to pity them. Aww, you poor guys. Everyone is so mean to you. You never did anything wrong. It must be your parents’ fault. Yes…we’ll blame it on your parents.
When did these lefties discover that they, in fact, were different? Is it the kind of thing where you’re uncomfortable using the right hand and you feel so much better with the left, but you’re afraid to tell anyone, fearing their reactions—like homosexuality? Did their parents stick a pencil in their right hand, and they switched it to their left instinctively?
And yet another part of me wants to hate them. Okay, hate is a strong word. Sometimes, lefties, you anger me. Like when the last pair of scissors is a lefty pair. Or the only desk available is a lefty desk.
Ahh, the lefty desk. Many of the desks in high school were ambidextrous (the chair wasn’t attached to the desk part, so you could swing either way), so it wasn’t until college that I discovered how annoying these lefty desks are. Lefties, I’m sorry that you have to sit at the one desk on the far left of each row. It’s sad, I know. But to make your friends sit at the desks right next to you, so far away from everyone? That’s asking a bit much. I’M the normal one. YOU should conform to me.
I hope I didn’t offend the lefties out there too much. You’re all just very special.