Gather around, you of lithe little pencil wrists, and get a load of these! I come from a long line of men with warrior wrists, stiff and thick as firewood chopped from the black forests of some awesome sounding place that doesn’t exist anymore like Northumbria. I believe that the males in my family wear wrist armor until they’re two (in my case, my mother accidentally sold the family wrist armor, emblazoned with our family crest, the fire-breathing drunk rooster, at a garage sale, forcing my dad to make an Ace Hardware run for some PVC pipe) leaving them without actual working wrist joints…and freeing us from the temptation to do anything that doesn’t require the whole arm from the shoulder down.
On Thanksgiving Day, someone handed me a baton and instantly and awkwardly baton twirling made the list of things my wrists are too tree trunky to accomplish, alongside twirling drumsticks, spinning uniball pens, spinning basketballs/frisbees/bar trays on my finger, or hitting a ping pong forehand with deadly levels of topspin. A bystander laughed, so to visually explain to him the way my wrists work, I swung the baton like a sword, catching it in a macrame plant hanger.
