Jazz Hands
I seem to have developed a case of jazz hands.
At first, I thought that maybe it was palsy or some nervous condition, you know, something like delerium tremens or spasmosa handsamosa, something for which I could maybe get some medical attention, maybe get some Rx pill to calm my flailing fingers, but no such luck. It's definitely the Bob Fosse curse, a clear-cut, summer-stock case of jazz hands.
From the moment I wake up in the morning, my jazz hands flutter and fly, jitter and jive, slip and slide.
I can't button a shirt, can't pee with any certainty of finding the target, can't carry a full cup of coffee more than a downstage side step or two, can't lift a forkful of food to my mouth for fear of taking out an eye, can't dial a telephone number without getting someone selling flip-flops in Indonesia, can't much hold, never mind read the morning newspaper, can't even scratch my head in wonder, because my jazz hand dances a foot to the left or twelve inches to the right, and all I manage to scratch is air.
It's quite seriously a condition that is afflicting almost every aspect of my life.
It's also very embarrassing.
Why, just the other day, I was at a social gathering, and at such little events, it is customary to shake hands, pump fists, or high five the people you meet. I wanted to participate in those skin-to-skin, glad-handed rituals, I really did, but my jazz hands would just flip and flop or dip and dive all over the place, and seriously, shaking my hand, pumping my fist, or throwing me a high five was like trying to catch a butterfly in a garden of indecent pleasures.
I'm sure most of the people whom I met must have thought me exceedingly rude or, at the very least, as wacky as some cartoon character out of an early Warner Bros television show. I wanted to say, "Jazz hands, I have jazz hands. It's not my fault," but I couldn't or wouldn't, because I had already embarrassed myself enough.
As the afternoon wore on, I slowly realised that most men find jazz hands a little effeminate. Sure, the slender guy in the languid pink polo shirt didn't seem to mind too much, but his own hands hung in mid-air like big girl panties pegged to a clothesline.
The typical woman's reaction, I discovered, was completely the opposite of their inside-out gender counterparts. Strangely enough, every woman seemed fascinated with my jazz hands. I can't imagine why.
I seem to have developed a case of jazz hands.
At first, I thought that maybe it was palsy or some nervous condition, you know, something like delerium tremens or spasmosa handsamosa, something for which I could maybe get some medical attention, maybe get some Rx pill to calm my flailing fingers, but no such luck. It's definitely the Bob Fosse curse, a clear-cut, summer-stock case of jazz hands.
From the moment I wake up in the morning, my jazz hands flutter and fly, jitter and jive, slip and slide.
I can't button a shirt, can't pee with any certainty of finding the target, can't carry a full cup of coffee more than a downstage side step or two, can't lift a forkful of food to my mouth for fear of taking out an eye, can't dial a telephone number without getting someone selling flip-flops in Indonesia, can't much hold, never mind read the morning newspaper, can't even scratch my head in wonder, because my jazz hand dances a foot to the left or twelve inches to the right, and all I manage to scratch is air.
It's quite seriously a condition that is afflicting almost every aspect of my life.
It's also very embarrassing.
Why, just the other day, I was at a social gathering, and at such little events, it is customary to shake hands, pump fists, or high five the people you meet. I wanted to participate in those skin-to-skin, glad-handed rituals, I really did, but my jazz hands would just flip and flop or dip and dive all over the place, and seriously, shaking my hand, pumping my fist, or throwing me a high five was like trying to catch a butterfly in a garden of indecent pleasures.
I'm sure most of the people whom I met must have thought me exceedingly rude or, at the very least, as wacky as some cartoon character out of an early Warner Bros television show. I wanted to say, "Jazz hands, I have jazz hands. It's not my fault," but I couldn't or wouldn't, because I had already embarrassed myself enough.
As the afternoon wore on, I slowly realised that most men find jazz hands a little effeminate. Sure, the slender guy in the languid pink polo shirt didn't seem to mind too much, but his own hands hung in mid-air like big girl panties pegged to a clothesline.
The typical woman's reaction, I discovered, was completely the opposite of their inside-out gender counterparts. Strangely enough, every woman seemed fascinated with my jazz hands. I can't imagine why.
