My left wrist has been achy and sore and occasionally excruciating for the past couple of weeks. If I’m being totally honest, this just happens sometimes, because I have worked a wide variety of jobs in my life that have worn down my hands and wrists. And then I do some stretching and I have my massage therapist work on it, and it’s fine for a while.
But where the hell has total honesty really gotten anyone? Here’s what really happened:
It was a cold and windy Tuesday afternoon. I sat in a dark corner of a cantina, sipping a locally brewed amber ale and munching on a basket of fried unicorn toes. The door flew open, slamming against the wall, and a huge man strode in, hummingbirds flitting about his head as he stopped just inside. The door flopped shut behind him, as all conversations stopped and everyone in the place stared.
After a moment to catch his breath, the man, who bore a strong resemblance to Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, sauntered over to the bar, ordered a rusty nail, and turned to glare around the room. Almost everyone hastily looked away, focusing back on their tables and companions.
I met his gaze and lifted my glass in a mocking salute. His eyes narrowed. He picked up his drink and came over to my table.
“You got something to say, lady?” he demanded.
“Not a damn thing,” I replied.
“Ooooooooh,” said all the people around us.
“You’re not gonna bully me,” I expanded. “I don’t think you’re as tough as you look, anyway.”
“Ooooooooooooooooh,” said all the people around us.
“That’s it!” he snapped. He sat down and placed his elbow in the middle of the table, in an unmistakable invitation to arm wrestle. I smiled.
“Hold my beer,” I said to one of the hummingbirds. She flitted down to hover next to me and I set the glass on her back. It balanced perfectly. I looked at his hand, and my smile grew wider. He was a lefty – I was going to be Princess Briding this match.
Princess Briding is a term that can refer to several situations: deliberately developing an immunity to a poison, referring to your future spouse by a demeaning pet name based on their occupation, running into a fire swamp because the authorities are chasing you…. But in this case, it refers to using your secondary hand because you’re so good at something that it will be no challenge if you use your dominant.
I put my elbow down and smacked my palm against his. After a few moments of pushing my hand to the right, I began to have doubts. This guy had supernatural strength to match mine! My eyes met his, and I realized with a start that he had the crazed eyes of a werewolf. My heart sank, but I steeled myself for one more push, giving it all I had.
It worked! My hand began to inch forward, moment by moment, and suddenly, with one final burst of strength, I forced my way though the last few inches of air, smashing the back of his hand against the table.
“Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!” said the crowd.
The werewolf jumped up, howling, his face contorting as he struggled not to change into his animal form in his rage.
I grabbed my beer from the back of his familiar, chugged it, and hightailed it out of there.
And that, dear readers, is why my wrist hurts. Obviously.
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