Last night I was watching television and feeling very uncomfortable. No, it wasn’t caused by Craig Ferguson coming on to Will Ferrell. That makes me titter. It was that I couldn’t stop thinking about how my right pinkie was touching my right ring finger. Does it always do that? Why don’t I notice it all the time?
Maybe you would like to know why I was so focused on it. I don’t know why I was so focused on it. Perhaps my ring finger had finally had enough and filed a formal complaint with my brain.
I supposed that the problem was in how the pinkie kept rubbing up on the ring finger, so I tried spreading them out on the ground beside me. Much as you might if you were going to play a game that involved drinking a lot of alcohol and then stabbing a knife at your fingers. It helped a little bit, but that is a tiring position to keep the hand in. Maybe I should work out more or something?
I also tried clenching my fist. That didn’t help much either. As soon as my ring finger realized that this just put it in even closer contact with my pinkie the complaints redoubled (it sounds like it could be a word though, you gotsta admit).
So, I endured and went to bed hoping that it wouldn’t be so bad in the morning. Of course, while I was drifting off to sleep, I couldn’t help but think that at least my left hand wasn’t having the problems that my right hand was.
Guess what happens when you focus on your left hand when you’ve got pinkie problems with your right? No, they don’t go away. They don’t migrate either — heavens, wouldn’t that have been nice. No, the right hand problems quickly have babies, raise them to maturity and then send them with an unhealthy quantity of angering pills over to live in your left hand.
At least … at least my feet never give me problems like this.