Birthday celebrations with the chicks always have the potential to veer off course. Last night, the celebration is for Sweetest G. Amongst the bangles, jewelry, wine and cocktails, thumbs are the topic of conversation. Before this particular Friday Happy Hour, I’d never considered thumbs, mine or anyone else’s. From now on, it’ll be in the forefront.
It becomes the topic when an alert someone notices one chick’s thumb going all pointy off to the left. Said other chick goes in for closer examination and we’re off.
My thumbs, it turns out, are straight. When held up for others to examine, they point neither left nor right. They just stand at attention. The room is about fifty-fifty on what’s normal and what’s not. Thus the trajectory of conversation after the discovery of thumb tips, after the after work cocktail or two.
Never having examined thumbs in detail, all thumbs in Old Town Dale are standing about thirty tall for comparison. Turns out, there’s a thumb thing referred to as “hitchhiker’s thumb.” It’s when the thumb’s end points east or west, left or right–whatever, it curves out, pointing away. And sometimes by a lot. Heredity does not seem to play a part. There are mother-daughter and father-daughter pairings in the mix with all manner of bendy and straight thumbs. Apparently, it makes no matter.
Hitchhiker thumb? This comes from the thirty-ish set. They explain to us old broads that a thumb pointing left or right makes it easier to hitch hike, thus the moniker. Not that any of this set has ever hitched a ride. That’s why they have boyfriends.
Thank Sweet Baby Jesus mine point straight up and my nails are painted with all this thumb inspection, think I, shuddering at the thought of standing roadside begging for a ride from a stranger. My dress might get dusty. And my heels would be ruined in that gravel. And how long would I be expected to stand in that heat?
Yeah. Hitchhiking? No.
Wait. Does the driver look like a cowboy? Is he wearing a suit? Two things that make this girl think, Hmmmm. Aloud. Although the idea that I’d be roadside is ridiculous, is it not? Still, he could have a really hot car. Not that I’m all teenager-y about a guy’s car. Much. Actually, it’s more about the suit. And the shoes. And the hair. And the blue eyes. And the words.
Okay, so he’s a sweet talker, in a suit, driving a great car, with a Southern drawl, and deep blue pools in the middle of his face and he just happens to offer a ride. Where’s my hitchhiker thumb when I need it?
The Duchess Diaries 