When I was in high school, my friends coined a term they referred to as "Lorraine's Lobster Hands." It would come up when I was storytelling, impersonating, walking, eating....well, basically I always had lobster hands.  To my best understanding, this originated in my early post theatre years. In the early days I was allowed, nay, encouraged to making crazy gestures with my hands when I talk. It made me positively splendid to watch on stage. And I of course could say leagues more with my hands than my mouth, and you all know what a talker I am. 

However, when I actually did leave the theatre room in High School and dabble in mainstream society, I would get self conscious, and rather than gesture wildly like I wanted to, or not at all which I was incapable of, I ended up sort of gesturing just from the elbow down, with my arms locked to my sides. At the time is seemed like a restrained compromise. The effect was that I much resembled a fiery lobster fighting for her life as they shove her down into the steaming execution pot.

This gesture has more or less taken hold for life, sadly, and as you can imagine, has only been exacerbated by the fact that one of my hands is a giant white tube right now. Oh dear.  I even just realized that they've pinned my fingers down with rubberbands, like those poor grocery store lobsters. This is getting dark...

Anyway, as previously mentioned, the act of gesticulation cannot  be curbed in me.  I continue to try waving, pointing, counting, emoting, pontificating, and cab hailing with a broken hand.  What happens is either confusion to the person I'm gesturing to (is she just swinging her arm for exercise? does it mean something?) or extreme discomfort (can't she wave with her other hand? she just wants more sympathy) or my at my deepest paranoia, fear that by continuing to wield Madam Left like a mace in a knight tournement, people will start to think I've made the whole thing up.  To which I say, YOU WANNA SEE THE SCAR TISSUE??

The most recent incident of this nature was this morning.  As one of my coworkers got off the elevator, we locked eyes, but as they were on the other side of the glass doors still, I couldn't really say good morning.  So I went to wave.  In this case, I stick my club in the air and hold it there. In my head, the fingers are doing a cute charming little twinkle, but in reality they are quite stationery.  The moment is passing quickly, no time to switch arms, too late to take it back, do something do something!  So...I resist the bands in my index finger, and waggle.  One finger.  Here is this idiot with her club waggling an index finger at 8:36 on a wednesday morning.  No one's even had their coffee yet. 

Fate knew it would be cruel to take away typing, writing, signing, knitting, utensiling, and driving.  But did he really consider the ramifications of taking away my ability to dramatically gesture?  Take that, stupid idiot face fate. I'm going to continue waggling my one finger just to make a point.  A point, not pointing. that would still be impossible.