I can type. I can type well. (‘Cause Dad made us use Mavis Beacon’s typing software. She’s a miracle worker.)
Typing has become second nature to me. As it should, really.
I don’t think about letter placement on my keyboard. I don’t question when my fingers move one way or the other without my instruction. I don’t worry when I read a typo–my fingers have already hit the backspace before I can even register there’s a problem.
But. I’ve learned I take these things for granted.
You see, there are days when I don’t feel for the two little bumps on the F and J. You know, those bumps that tell your fingers it’s safe to work their magic. The bumps that calm and comfort the hands as they lie in their places to conduct the ins and outs of nearly my entire existence as an employee and human.
On those days, everything changes. Words, phrases, and entire messages become skewed. I no longer spell correctly. I no longer convey my intentions. I no longer stake a claim as a wordsmith, a writer, or even a normal being.
Nothing is legible.
Can’t becomes x[capslock]BLR,
Home becomes gin3,
Love becomes o9bfk
No one understands x[capslock]BLR,
It’s hard to return to a gin3,
Frankly, it’s impossible to feel 09bfk
(And don’t even get me started on the punctuation problem with this.)
All because I didn’t take time to feel for the bumps on the keyboard. All because I took for granted the bumps that help my fingers work their magic. All because I skipped the step where I ask the calm and comfort to help me conduct the ins and outs of my day.
I’m sorry. Really, I am.