It’s human nature to sometimes take a passionate stand, pro or con, solely based on those opposed to or in support of a hot-button issue.  It dawned on me, as I was falling feather-like into sleep last night, that I have been solidly on the “con” side of this debate simply because there is little in my innate or nurtured psyche that identifies with the LaPierre/Heston catechism or any metaphor about cold, dead hands.  “Small mi-m-blurg…”, I thought, passing out before I could complete “minded”.  But…unlike most important drowsy thoughts, or killer song lyrics, or ideas for billion-dollar apps, I awoke thinking, “…inded”, and knew this was no trivial matter.  To my surprise, suddenly free of long-held prejudice, I have reversed my position…with a few reservations:

• Most arms are not very attractive and the pits can be downright gag-inducing.  Perhaps, instead of legislation, we could craft some commonly accepted guidelines, (aka manners), you know, akin to ‘no elbows on the table’ or ‘farting on the subway’.  Oh…and can we all just agree that that jiggly, flabby underarm stuff needs to be covered up?

• I personally don’t get the tattoo thing, but inky choices of offensive symbols or graphic profanity should fall under the same category as spray-painting a bus or public school.  I realize this is a slippery slope.  I mean, who is going to decide if an artistically-rendered, skull-devouring, helplessly bleeding puppy is improper to flaunt in public?

• Crackly dried elbows and oozing, pussy sores will probably heal quicker if they’re slathered in salve and covered in bandages…don’t you think?

You know, I’m not sure I’ve really thought this whole thing through.  I’m probably a banana split and an unblocked sunburn or two away from the onset of my own challenges with inappropriate arm appearance.  So, yes…I am newly committed, without any restriction whatsoever to everyone’s right to bare arms and, I suppose, the even more potentially controversial bare feet.