I Wouldn’t Give My Right Arm

I Wouldn’t Give My Right Arm
I’m pretty good at handling cosmic injustices — cancer, two burned down houses, my mom’s Alzheimer’s, and my dad’s myasthenia gravis. My kid gets migraines, my husband has gut problems, and my tomato plants got a funky disease last season that left them with a spongy black spot on the bottom of their otherwise perfect fruit. These issues don’t cause me angst because no one did them on purpose; they fall under the “stuff happens” category, and everyone has a story about their own unique pile, even people whose lives look perfect. But when I see a human being who chooses to be mean instead of kind, I tend to lose my mind. Injustice prickles my skin and inflames my passion. It pisses me off. That’s why I love my new fitness class. Five days a week, I let a soft-spoken Irish guy harass, cajole, and inspire me to use muscles my body forgot. Chemo took some of my physical power in exchange for saving my life, but now I’m working to get it back. It’s true that under my breath, I curse that Irish guy sometimes — while I try to do a sit up, for example
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