CALL ME SNAKE

I was throwing some clothes in a closet shelf over the weekend, when I got inspired to sort through the mess and see what items had accumulated there over the years. I found things I had forgotten all about. I also had a chance to take stock of my blue jean collection and was surprised to see that every one of them had a tear on the right knee. That seemed like a strange coincidence to me, so I started to wonder whether it was a coincidence. I’ve tried to pay attention over the last couple of days–say when I drop a napkin or clean up some milk that my youngest spilled on the floor–and I’ve made a discovery: I seem to be a righthanded kneeler. Or perhaps I should say a right-kneed kneeler. I’m not sure why that’s the case. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I right lefthanded. Or the fact that I throw a ball righthanded. I can’t explain it, but the pants I’ve acquired over the last several years do not lie: The right knees are shot, whereas the left knees look fine.

The lesson here appears to be that you never know what you’ll find when you look through your closet. So far, thankfully, I have yet to turn up any skeletons.