Three-Handed Couple

As you know, Tiffany and I were a little shorthanded these last few weeks. After I broke my right 5th metacarpal over Thanksgiving, we were down to three upper extremities between us, just as we were moving into our new apartment and assembling--my personal favorite relationship test--Ikea furniture.

We started off okay. Tiffany was willing to wash my hair and floss my teeth for me, and I accepted those kindnesses gratefully.

But pretty soon, I got grumpy. I couldn't do any of the things that would be most helpful, like carrying boxes up the stairs of our third floor walk-up. Instead of taking pride in the things I could do--like sit in the double-parked car and call all our magazines to update our address--I pouted.

Tiffany, meanwhile, was not upset that I couldn't do any of the things that would be most helpful. She was totally fine with taking on the brunt of our household chores and tasks. Until I started taking all my frustration out on her.

"How do you like the bookshelf here?" she asked one evening after I had been passive-aggressively second-guessing her decisions without offering any suggestions of my own.

"Whatever," I sighed.

"Alright, Eeyore, what is wrong with you?" she asked, throwing up her hands.

"I'm mad I can't do anything!" I screeched, throwing up my one good hand.

Tiffany darted her eyes around the room, looking for any task to appease me.

"Why don't you organize the pencil jar?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a two-year-old!" I hissed, stomping away from her into the farthest corner of what suddenly felt like an exceptionally small apartment.

Later, I apologized.

"Maybe we're not a very good three-handed couple," I said as we walked to dinner together.

Tiffany nodded, reaching for my cast. But she was just being generous. The truth was, I wasn't being a very good one-handed person.

After I realized that, things got better. When we assembled the next piece of Ikea furniture, I organized all the screws, which is really the only part of assembly I'm good at anyway, no matter how many hands I have.

A few days later, still one-handed, I decided to go ahead and do something I'd been meaning to do for a long time.

I asked for one of Tiffany's hands.

And when she gave it to me, I put a ring on it.

Under the Category of Things Only Dentists Should Do

I broke a bone in my hand over Thanksgiving, and, I'll tell you what,
one-handedness has seriously cramped my style. And my dental hygiene.

After the first few nights of only brushing (with my non-dominant left
hand, so by brushing I mean limply swiping at my teeth and sometimes
my cheek), I asked Tiffany if she would floss for me, and she said
yes!

Alright, alright, it wasn't quite as quick a response as that, and it
really didn't warrant an exclamation point. It was more like:

"Oh my god, are you serious?"

But still, the end result was the same: she was willing to
stick her fingers in my mouth to pick out a stubborn piece of broccoli
from our first dinner in our new apartment.

Just like she was willing to wash my hair for me. I manage that on my
own, however. Sort of. With my right hand pseudo-casted and swaddled
in a plastic bag, I can't really work up a lather anywhere except the
part of my hair I first touch.

But flossing takes two hands for sure. And Tiffany provided them.

"You know what would be easier?" I asked. Since her fingers were in my
mouth, it sounded more like:

"Uh oh ut ould ee eaier?"

"Please don't talk while my fingers are in your mouth; you're gumming
my hands," she said, grimacing.

"Oss icks!" I cried, ignoring her.

Floss sticks.