I am a frustrated writer. Two of my preferred tools are giving me fits. The first is my computer. The second is the thumb on my right hand.
We’re working through the computer problems, with help from some technicians. Today we’ll install the programs that might solve everything. Or not. Being without this tool for almost three weeks has slowed me down. At least I have a reason other than myself to blame for missed deadlines.
But I must confess that I’m even fonder of my right thumb than I am of my computer. And more miffed at its disloyalty.
Right now, swollen and sore, it reminds me of how much it usually does for me and how dependent I am on it to get through the day. I have to ask Hal to open cans and chop the onion for our evening meal. The car door is too demanding for me to manage, so we’re back to the days of courtship when he did the honors. In a way, that’s nice, but I actually prefer the independence of doing it for myself. All these little ordinary services my thumb has faithfully preformed for me all my life.
To say that having a fat throbbing thumb cramps my writing style is understatement.
So—sorry, thumb, for taking you for granted. Thank you for serving me so well in the past. Please, if you would, come back from this weird vacation and become, once again, my faithful servant.
Sincerely, the rest of your body