She told me to twist off the top. I tried. She told me to try again. I did. I tried with a towel, without a towel, and even under water. Nothing worked. I handed the jar over to my sister and with a flick of her wrist the jar was open. “How did you do that?!” I cried. “Just turn it,” she shrugged.
At the time, I thought she was trying to make it look easy. Then, after I moved away and still couldn’t open a jar, I learned that everyone makes it look easy. I was helpless and everyone else was accomplished. Determined to overcome my natural handicap, I tried any method that came my way.
I tapped the bottom of jars. Didn’t help.
I slammed the bottom of jars. Changed nothing.
I rolled jars around. I didn’t understand how that could help; it didn’t.
I allowed jars to sit under hot running water. Burned my hands a little, but the lid stayed stuck.
Nothing worked, and I gave up. It seemed that the only way I would ever open a jar on my own would be by handing it off to someone else.
Yet that refrain of “Just turn it,” played in my head every time I came across a jar. And I would try. Then I would fail, and go in search of someone more capable. Suddenly, one day, it happened. As I was wondering who I’d be taking the jar to this time, I turned the lid and it came off the jar. With a soft pop the lid loosened and I had done it. I stated at the lid sitting in my hand and thought, “My sister was right.”
Which leaves me wondering what else she knows.