I've come to the conclusion that "all thumbs" is better than no thumbs.
I've got 'em yet--my thumbs--but they're both wounded, scarred, and tender. Trust me, I'm the last of the fixer-up-ers, but I took on a little job last weekend that required wedging two sheets of floor tile from the cement in the basement john. It wasn't a horror, but it wasn't a great deal of fun either, jamming a screw driver and a paint scraper beneath ye olde tiles until the dirty, rotten stuff broke off in tomahawk shards, knife-edged. In the process, I jammed my thumbs--both of them--into those brutally sharp edges, punctured 'em. I'm trying to make you wince. Both of them, see? Blood like you wouldn't believe.
My wife suggested I wear gloves. Where was I when brains were passed out?
Anyway, since then, I've discovered a thousand ways in which we use our thumbs, even the very ends, especially the very ends. My thumb pads are just fine, and I can type for fair, but just about fourteen times an hour I discover that one's thumb ends are incredibly valuable commodities. I mean, people talk about fingertips, but when's the last time you ever heard anyone talk about thumb tips? I'm saying, they're there. I know. Believe me.
I'll live. But I'd rather they were healthy, so this morning's thanks are for the tips of a pair of appendiges I never thought much about until this weekend, when I was reminded of them, painfully, far too blasted often.
Like I said, I'll live.