Turns out that the shooting pain in my left wrist that I've been ignoring for the past month is some kind of tendonitis/carpal-tunnel-type situation. Which is fanTAStic news for me leading up to my first manuscript deadline.
I nodded obediently as the doctor told me the first stage of treatment: Advil, ice, wrist brace, and not using my left hand for three weeks. My left hand is my dominant hand, by the way. It's my writing, chopping, typing, whisking, stubborn-peanut-butter-jar-opening hand. Then I went home and had this conversation with my left hand:
Me: Hey. Listen up. There's one week left until my deadline so you better man up. This book isn't going to write itself.
Lefty: The doctor prescribed rest. You told her you would...
Me: Pipe down. You already had a week of rest during the big Norovirus Extravaganza. I get one shot at a book. ONE SHOT and you're not going to ruin it for me.
Lefty: Ice! I need ice!
Me: You'll get your bag of frozen peas in a minute. First type this stupid post.
Lefty: Why don't you ever make the other hand do any work? It's not like she has anything better to do.
(Right Hand is sunning herself under my desk lamp in a skimpy bikini and earbuds.)
Me: What? That useless thing? The only thing she's good for is helping to keep me from sinking to the bottom of the pool, and she can barely do that, frankly.
Right Hand: Whatevs. (Rolls over onto her other side)
Me: Do you know what would happen if I put Righty over there in charge of operations?
Lefty: What?
Me: Sure, you'd enjoy a relaxing convalescence, but you'd return only to find that all five of your fingers had been chopped off. Is that what you want? God, I can't even read her writing. Would you look at the draft for this post? Does this say "bloody stump" or "broody crumpet"?
Lefty: (gulp)
Right Hand: Another margarita, please!
Suddenly, another week isn't looking so bad!
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