#608 Qunch

One thing that amazes me about the moving process is how flexible the body can be. I must have crushed my hands about five times this go around.
Something about moving furniture and boxes seems to make the hands more vulnerable to squishing. But they don’t really crunch, and they don’t really squish. They qunch.
Like the through-the-door qunch. You know what I mean. You’re straining with a piece of furniture and focusing all of your attention on just keeping it up. You neglect to notice that the size of the furniture is such that as you go through the door there is not enough room for the sharp edge of the couch you’re holding, the width of your hand, and extra space.
So the back of your hand qunches into the door jamb.
Your hand is suddenly suffering from DD—Davenport Demolition. Or possibly ASS—Acute Sofa Soreness.
This usually occurs when you are doing that final heave-ho to get it over a step and through, so significant momentum is applied to the bones of your hand as it is crushed.
You carry on with the large piece of furniture¾you have no choice, you have to hold up your end of the moving transaction¾but you are certain from the pain that it’s likely your entire set of exposed knuckles are scratched and bleeding, possibly festooned with large, dangling flaps of skin.
When you’ve finally set the furniture down, you sneak a look at your hand and are amazed. There is no bruise and no blood. You walk away and think, wow, the body sure is resilient.
You feel cocky, like only the cocky who have dodged the bullet can feel. The old guy’s still tough, you think.
The next morning you grab your glass off the nightstand and it falls to the floor. You can’t close your hand without excruciating pain.
And that day you’re scheduled to attend an event where you’ll be meeting a lot of new people.
Uh oh.
Forever after you’ll be branded as the guy with the wimpy handshake.
So you write this essay about qunching...
America, ya gotta love it