Ode to a Middle Finger

I had no idea how many times I use my middle finger in a day. Until I injured it.

I foolishly (no need to get into how—imagine a mom with mom brain and a broken flower pot. ‘Nuff said.) sliced the skin off the tip of my middle finger while cleaning up for Little A.’s big birthday weekend. I’ve spent the time since being humbled by my reliance on good ol’ “tall man.”

My long, strong middle finger does so much for me. Since I’m basically a polite, soft-spoken person, it allows me to express myself fully. For example, without it, I can only say this:

As an edtor. Type for a lvng. T’s oay to skp most letters or gve them to other fngers, but some just can’t be typed wthout t.

I also find that my middle digit does a lot of the heavy lifting in my day. It’s always sticking out there, so it leverages all my interactions. Need me to lift a frying pan from the bottom of the stack? Totally going with that middle finger. You want the volume turned up? Need that middle finger.

Tucking in a shirt? Opening one of those window locks? Scrubbing the slime out of a dog bowl? Yep, all get the middle digit treatment. And when the kids need me to dig change out of the bottom of my purse? Yeah, I lead with the middle finger. Oh-my-gosh-so-much-pain-if-you-forget-it's-hurt.

Did I mention how many times a day I put my hands in water? Seriously, the mom life consists of either cleaning some sh*t off something or subsequently cleaning said sh*t off your hands. Try doing that with a bandage or an open wound! I ended up wearing a rubber glove half the time.

Because I'm bad, I'm bad...

I know I'm a child of the '80s, but I did not like Michael Jackson anywhere remotely enough for this!

Longhaired folks, I know you hear me when I say this, but sometimes people just don’t get your need to use your middle finger.

I mean, I said to Big A., “How am I going to wash my hair now?”

He looked at me as if I were totally idiotic and he said, “Use your other hand?”

Now, you KNOW why I needed a middle finger there. Of course he doesn’t get it; his hair is a quarter inch long, for crying out loud.

I’m happy to say that, ten days later, we’re on the mend. I can type again. Alleluia! I can wash my hair. I can clean the dog bowl. I can dig through my purse with only the slightest twinge.

But I will never, ever, take that special appendage for granted again. All hail, mighty middle finger!

This photo is solely for illustrative purposes. It has no additional meaning and any resemblance to any other body part, living or dead, is purely coincidental.