I throw things.
No, not at my husband and not in anger. Just for efficiency’s sake. I throw used towels from the kitchen toward the laundry room. I throw rinsed-out milk cartons from one end of the kitchen toward the recycle bag. I hurl empty plastic bottles from the garage door toward the trash can. Today I threw (or tried to) the better half of an outdoor extension cord across the patio.
My persistence might make you think I regularly hit my target. Nope. No matter how hard I throw or what sort of windup I create, the object generally goes any number of places other than where I intended, and most often ends up at my feet. It’s usually good for a laugh, if I haven’t drenched myself with whatever liquid remained.
You’d think I was a former MLB outfielder with this ongoing predilection. In truth, my athletic abilities are ridiculous and pathetic. I have absolutely no hand-eye coordination. I have never been able to catch, throw or hit a target for beans. I tried skeet shooting. The only ones I hit were from absolute luck. I made short, uneventful stabs at tennis and golf. Keeping my eye on the ball has never been successful. I was even lame at kickball. I can hit a volleyball, but one never knows what direction it might go.
I blame it on my poor eyesight, which made me cross-eyed at age 3, and I’m left-handed. That seems like sufficient excuse and I choose to look no farther. And in spite of all this, things will keep flying through the air at my house. Why, you ask? Because once, somewhere back in 1963, something I tossed actually connected. So — my attitude? Hey, it could happen again. You’ll know. I will have rented a plane and had it announced in skywriting.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer who never really practiced her jump shot. Contact her at [email protected].
