My grandmother is somewhere reading this right now, shaking her damn head.
There were a few things I did that she despised: one was anything even remotely hinting at the fact we may not be as Jewish as we pretended and another was cracking my knuckles. She also hated tattoos. I’ve stayed away from one of those three.
Akin to this feeling, it’s only good in the beginning. After that, it starts to feel too routine, this rote motion that you’re somehow vaguely aware may actually be hurting and not helping you.
But that first one of the day? When you get you’re whole hand to pop? It’s freeing in a way, frankly, that’s hard to describe.
As a side note, you know what’s also fun? Cracking someone else‘s knuckles when they’ve either never done it (Jackpot!) or rarely ever do. That surprised look of horror/abject fear that comes over their face is priceless.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Trying, desperately, to crack your back and being unable to get to whatever that spot is. You even consider, briefly, getting someone in the room to do that bear hug thing with you. True desperation.
scott spinelli 