This is getting out of hand

In many cultures, the left hand is considered unclean or sinister. As a left-handed person, I’ve always thought that was pretty badass.

I’m in good company. Most presidents have been southpaws. Many people with stuff hanging up in museums predominantly used their left hands to execute that brilliance. Al Gore, who practically invented the Internet, is a leftie.

You can’t convince me that the left hand is inferior. I couldn’t tie my shoes until I was seven, because I’m gifted. Because I’m left-handed.

I still have to mutter “leftie loosie, righty tighty” at times and have yet to learn my addition tables, because even geniuses have their little deficiencies, the kind that make interesting segues in cheesy Hollywood biopics.

Another reason I so believe in my left hand? It’s the only one I have that’s not covered in bandages at the moment.

On Saturday night, I went to a party in Williamsburg that involved roasting an entire lamb and then passing its skull around in order to take new Facebook profile pictures.

It’s a little disconcerting to make eye contact with the dead animal you’re eating. Some guy graciously offered to cut some meat off the carcass for me, saying, “I’ve never felt so manly. Would you like me to drag you by your hair back to the Lower East Side?”

I just couldn’t eat the lamb, but I felt bad for wasting perfectly good food. A long-haired dachshund suddenly entered the tiny Brooklyn backyard, and I called him over. The dog greedily snapped at the meat I dangled in front of him, sinking a sharp tooth into the cuticle of my right index finger.

And then there was yelping. Mine. It was like my fingernail was giving birth without a good grasp of Lamaze technique. It took two cups of wine for me to forgive that mangy mutt, but he avoided me the rest of the evening anyway.

Later, I asked one of the people throwing the party who owned the dog. He had no idea. The dachshund was clearly there to crash the festivities.

Yesterday morning, I injured my index finger again. This time I was haphazardly slicing some brie. It hurt like a soft, double-creamed mother, but clotted quickly. I chuckled later when I told a co-worker I hurt my finger while cutting the cheese.

Texas kids weren’t the only ones who said “cutting the cheese” as a euphemism for “farting,” right?

After comedy class, I returned to the same wedge of brie for a late-night snack. I get home at 10:30 on Tuesdays, so dinner is always iffy. So what if I already injured myself attempting to eat the same thing earlier?

This time, it was worse. I was tired and distracted. The knife sliced right through the pad of my right thumb, Zorro-style. Blood was gushing on the cheese. Surely that’s a delicacy somewhere.

The reason I was distracted while cutting the cheese - go ahead, you can laugh there - was a freelance assignment I needed to wrap up. In case you’re wondering, it was very hard to do that as I was hemorrhaging. I almost wrapped my hand in paper towels and recycled grocery bags and called it a night.

The bleeding stopped eventually. I’ve got this cumbersome Band-Aid on my thumb that I keep accidentally scratching my face with. Really, I should be using some special kind designed for wounded thumbs. Maybe something I can have friends sign.

I worry about the state of my right hand, as I’m taking a trapeze class next weekend. If I can’t use my hands to hang on a bar flying through the air, I could have even worse injuries to deal with.

My fingers throb with each second. Maybe they’re infected. Maybe primates need unhindered use of both thumbs to thrive, even when most of their handiwork involves a computer keyboard.

Maybe my right hand was always wrong.

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