There was a young fellow from Trinity, Who took the square root of infinity. But the number of digits, Gave him the fidgets; So he dropped Math and took up Divinity. Huckleberry Finn,
Last week I was sitting with Dearest Duck in a blocked-solid gymnasium waiting to see Pop’s East Coast Girls in their dance school’s Spring Concert. I finished reading the program and commenced to fold it — and refold and double-fold and shape it into accordion pleats.
I squirmed in my seat as if I were still a wee bay-boy in a church pew.
Dearest Duck scowled at me and said, “Harry, stop fiddling and fidgeting. You’re worse than a youngster. You need one of those fidget spinners to play with instead of mogrifying that program.”
“I’m too clumsy to use those things,” said I, fancying myself playing with a chummy-thing like the one I’d seen one of Pop’s girls whiz-whizing on her fingertips.
When the concert started, Dearest Duck snatched the tattered program, so I sat on my hands and pondered the problem of fidgets, or fidgeting … whatever.
Like most aspects of the human condition, fidgeting appears in Great Literature — Mark Twain’s for instance.
One night Huck steals a block of butter and, almost caught by Aunt Sally, hides it under his hat. But Aunt Sally suspects Huck is up to no good and forces him to sit with her in a room full of people. And guess what?
In a decidedly fidget inducing situation, Huck is fated to bide still in the warm room while the butter melts and drools down his noggin.
Huck could have used and fidget spinner, eh b’ys?
While little girls rigged up in costumes cute enough to make you vomit danced around the stage, I forgot about Huck … … and remembered Granny. Granny didn’t fidget. To stave off the urge to wiggle like a worm in her rocker, Granny pleated her apron, folded it on her lap until it looked like … like … like a folded concert program, p’raps.
Then, satisfied it was creased to completion, Granny pressed it flat with the palm of her hand. She repeated this pattern until bedtime.
If for some inconceivable reason Granny wasn’t wearing an apron, she twiddled her thumbs. Her fingers interlinked beneath her imperious bosoms, Granny rolled her thumbs one ‘round the other.
Silly boy, I once asked, “Why do you always twiddle your thumbs like that?”
“Not always,” she said. “Sometimes I twiddles them like this.” And she reversed the direction.
“Harry,” says Dearest Duck. “I think you’re stealing my line?” “P’raps so, my Duck,” say I. B’ys, the concert eventually ended. It was lovely — both the concert and the ending.
Yet I’ve continued to ponder those friggin’ fidget spinners.
Certain Professional People claim that those gadgets are a godsend for children suffering various hyper-activity disorders. Spinners help them bleed off the fidgets, I s’pose. P’raps that’s true, but the skeptic in me thinks it just might be a mound of horse whoopsie.
“Harry! Who are you to say what might be beneficial in such cases?” says Dearest Duck.
Duck,” say I.
Always willing to fill my Holes of Ignorance with truth I packed a lunch and toddled off to Mr. Google’s house. There, I travelled around the world seeking information about those faddish fidget spinners.
And, b’ys, you know what? Beneficial effects notwithstanding, those bloody things are dangerous.
Sure, one youngster over in England spun a spinner off her middle finger and nearly put out her eye. Considering that accident, p’raps mothers should fear spinners more than they once feared BB guns.
Teeth have been broken. Noses have been knocked. Dogs have caught and swallowed flying spinners.
School teachers have decided to seek sick leave until the fad has faded.
While roaming Mr. Google’s realm I learned of a shocking accident, the thoughts of which would’ve caused Granny to shred her apron.
One man — naked as the proverbial jaybird, I s’pose — somehow managed inadvertently to launch a spinner and sail it upstream in his alimentary canal where it drove aground, so to speak, far past the first bend.
I reckon the embedded spinner caused more fidgeting than it ever lessened while twirling on his thumb.
B’ys, I don’t want to think about the physical contortions that placed said spinner and said canal in such perilous proximity. Don’t you think about it either. Thank you for reading. chastised, my