Dating someone new can be a fun, exciting, and sometimes perplexing experience. While everyone brings their unique quirks and habits into a relationship, there’s something particularly strange yet fascinating about dating a right-handed man. You might not think much about hand dominance at first, but as time goes on, you start noticing small but undeniable patterns that make you go, “Wait… this is weird.”
Let’s dive into the funny, unexpected, and sometimes frustrating moments that happen when you’re in a relationship with a right-handed guy.
The Right Hand Takes Over Everything
The first thing you’ll notice when dating a right-handed man? Everything is done with his right hand. And we mean everything.
- Eating? Right hand.
- Texting? Right hand.
- Brushing his hair? Right hand.
- Holding your hand? Of course, right hand.
It’s almost as if his left hand doesn’t exist—unless he’s forced to use it. This can sometimes lead to hilarious struggles, like when he has to hold something heavy in his left hand or try using scissors designed for lefties.
And if you’re left-handed? Get ready for accidental elbow wars at the dinner table!
The “Right-Handed Dominance” in Everyday Life
Once you start noticing his right-hand bias, you can’t unsee it. Everything he does is slightly tilted in favor of the right side:
- Sitting position? He leans slightly to the right.
- Pocket placement? His phone, wallet, and keys are all in the right pocket.
- High-fives? Always with his right hand—never the left.
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Even when he gestures while talking, his right hand does all the work, while his left remains awkwardly hanging by his side. It’s a subtle but hilarious habit that you can’t ignore once you start seeing it.
Right-Handers and Their Love for “The Right Side”
Ever noticed that right-handed people naturally prefer the right side of things? A right-handed boyfriend will almost always:
Pick the seat on the right side when given a choice. Turn right first when navigating through a store. Use his right foot first when stepping into a new place.
And if you ever switch things up—like sitting to his right instead of his left—he might hesitate for a second before adjusting. It’s a minor detail, but it reveals how deeply ingrained hand dominance is in everyday habits.
The Struggle with Sharing Space
If you’re a left-handed person dating a right-handed man, get ready for some unexpected frustrations.
- Eating next to each other? Your elbows will constantly bump.
- Cooking together? You’ll fight over which side of the counter you can use.
- Writing side by side? Get ready for an awkward “whose hand crosses over first” situation.
It’s like living in a mirrored world where one person always feels like they’re in the way. But over time, you both learn to adjust, and these little quirks actually become endearing parts of your relationship.
How a Right-Handed Man Holds You
Even the way he hugs and holds you can be influenced by his dominant hand!
- Hand-holding? He instinctively reaches for your left hand with his right.
- Hugging? His right arm naturally wraps around your shoulders.
- Carrying things for you? It’s almost always in his right hand.
And if he’s ever forced to use his left hand for something, he’ll grumble about how unnatural it feels—as if his left hand is just there for decoration.
Right-Handers in Competitive Games
Dating a right-handed gamer, athlete, or sports enthusiast? Get ready for some intense right-side dominance.
- Throwing a ball? Always with the right hand.
- Holding a racket? Right hand.
- Pressing buttons on a controller? Right fingers do all the work.
If you ever try to challenge him to switch hands, he’ll probably laugh it off—until he actually tries and realizes he’s completely useless with his left hand.
The Unintentional Right-Handed Bias in Driving
Here’s something weird you might notice when riding in a car with a right-handed man:
- His right hand is always the dominant one on the wheel.
- He adjusts the radio or air conditioning with his right hand.
- If he has to quickly react, his instinct is to turn to the right first.
Video : Scientists Explain Why Left-Handed People are Smarter than the Rest of us
And if he’s ever forced to steer with his left hand? He’ll complain about how weird it feels—even though both hands are technically the same.
The “Right-Handed Routine” in Daily Tasks
When living with a right-handed boyfriend, you’ll start seeing patterns in his daily habits that he doesn’t even notice.
- Putting on clothes? Always right arm first, then left.
- Tying shoes? Right shoe first, then left.
- Grabbing things? If he’s holding multiple items, he’ll naturally prioritize the right hand for important things.
It’s almost like his left side exists only for balance—but never for real work!
Final Thoughts: The Strange Yet Endearing Habits of a Right-Handed Man
Dating a right-handed man comes with a lot of subtle but hilarious observations. From his preference for right-side seating to his struggle with left-handed tasks, these quirks make you appreciate just how much hand dominance shapes everyday life.
While it might seem strange at first, these habits eventually become endearing parts of your relationship—little things that make you smile every time you notice them.
So, if you’re dating a right-handed man, pay attention to the small details—you might start seeing patterns you never noticed before! 
Have you ever noticed these quirks in a right-handed partner? Share your experiences in the comments! 
When My Grandma with Dementia Mistook Me for Her Husband, I Couldn’t Handle It—But Then I Realized Something Important
It was my senior year, and I thought it would be filled with exams, friends, and plans for the future. Instead, I was at home watching my grandmother decline from dementia. She often mistook me for her late husband, George. It drove me crazy—until one day, everything changed.
That day is one I will always remember. My grandmother, Gretchen, was not doing well. She was forgetful, confused, and her health was getting worse.
Mom and I knew something was wrong, but getting Grandma to see a doctor was not easy. She was stubborn and insisted she was fine. However, we finally convinced her to go.
After several tests, the doctor met with us and shared the news: dementia. I remember how Mom’s face fell when he explained that there wasn’t much they could do.
The medication might slow the disease down, but it wouldn’t stop it from getting worse. We had to accept that things were going to change.
That same day, we decided Grandma would move in with us. We couldn’t leave her alone, especially after my grandfather, George, passed away a few years ago. It was the right choice, but it didn’t make things any easier.
That night, I sat at my desk, trying to study for my exams. It was my final year, and I had a lot to handle. Then I heard her crying and whispering to someone.
I got up and walked toward her room, feeling sad. She was talking to Grandpa as if he were right there. It broke my heart to hear her, but there was nothing I could do.
As the months passed, Grandma’s condition got worse. There were days when she didn’t recognize where she was or who we were. Those moments were short but still hurt deeply.
One morning, I came downstairs to find Mom cleaning the kitchen. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept much.
“Did Grandma move everything around again last night?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Mom kept cleaning. “Yes,” she said quietly. “She woke up in the night and said the plates and cups were wrong. I told her nothing had changed, but she didn’t believe me. She kept moving things around, looking for things that weren’t even there.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just patted her back. “It’ll be okay,” I mumbled, even though I wasn’t sure it would be.
Mom shook her head. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this. You have school to focus on. Do you want some breakfast?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll eat later.” I picked up an apple from the table to have something in my hand and headed for the door. Mom didn’t say anything as I left.
When I got home, the house was quiet. Mom was still at work. I heard soft footsteps upstairs. Grandma was moving around again. I followed the sound and found her in the kitchen, shifting plates and cups from one cabinet to another.
She turned when she saw me, her eyes lighting up. “George! You’re back!” She rushed toward me with open arms.
I froze, unsure what to do. “No, Grandma. It’s me—Michael, your grandson.”
But she shook her head, not hearing me. “George, what are you talking about? We’re too young to have grandchildren. Someone moved the dishes again. Was it your mother? She always changes everything.”
I stood there, feeling helpless. “Grandma, listen. I’m not George. I’m Michael, your grandson. You’re at our house, mine and your daughter Carol’s.”
Her smile faded, and she looked confused. “George, stop saying these strange things. You’re scaring me. We don’t have a daughter. Remember? You promised to take me on that date by the sea. When can we go?”
I sighed, not knowing how to respond. I couldn’t keep telling her the truth; she didn’t understand. “I… I don’t know, Grandma,” I said softly, then turned and left the kitchen.
When Mom got home, I told her what had happened.
She sat down and smiled sadly. “I understand why she thinks you’re George.”
I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Mom looked up at me. “You look just like him when he was young. It’s like you’re his twin.”
I was quiet for a moment. “I’ve never seen any pictures of him when he was younger.”
Mom stood up from the couch. “Come with me. I’ll show you.” She walked toward the attic and pulled down the stairs. I followed her up as she searched through a few old boxes. Finally, she handed me an old photo album.
I opened it. The first picture looked worn and faded. The man in it? He looked just like me.
“Is this Grandpa?” I asked, flipping through the pages.
“Yes,” Mom said softly. “See what I mean? You two really do look alike.”
“Too much alike,” I whispered, staring at the pictures.
“You can keep the album if you want,” Mom said.
That night, I sat in my room, flipping through the album again. I couldn’t believe how much I looked like him.
Grandma’s condition got worse every day. She barely spoke, and when she did, it was hard to understand her.
Sometimes she couldn’t even walk without help. Mom had to feed her most days. But no matter what, Grandma always called me “George.”
One afternoon, after she said it again, I snapped. “I’m not George! I’m Michael! Your grandson! Why don’t you understand?”
Mom looked up from where she was sitting. “Michael, she doesn’t understand anymore.”
“I don’t care!” I shouted. “I’m tired of this! I can’t handle it!”
I turned toward the hallway, my anger boiling over.
“Where are you going?” Mom asked, standing up quickly.
“I need to get out of here,” I said, my voice shaking. I grabbed my jacket and slammed the door behind me before Mom could say anything else. I needed space, away from it all. Away from Grandma’s confusion and my own frustration.
Without thinking, I ended up at the cemetery where my grandfather was buried. I walked between the rows of headstones until I found his grave.
Seeing his name on the stone brought a lump to my throat. I sat down on the grass in front of it and let out a long, heavy sigh.
“Why aren’t you here?” I asked, staring at the headstone. “You always knew what to do.”
The silence felt deafening. I sat there for what felt like hours, lost in my thoughts. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times Grandpa had been there for me, for Mom, for Grandma. He had a way of making everything seem simple, no matter how hard life got.
Then, suddenly, a memory hit me. I was about five or six years old, wearing Grandpa’s big jacket and hat, telling him I wanted to be just like him.
He laughed so hard, but I remembered the pride in his eyes. That memory made me smile, even as tears streamed down my face.
It was getting dark, and I knew I had to go home. When I walked through the door, Mom was waiting, her face tight with worry.
“After you left, I took Grandma to the doctor,” she said, her voice breaking. “He said she doesn’t have much time left.”
I walked over and hugged her tightly, no words coming to mind. At that moment, I realized what I had to do.
The next day, I put on the suit that used to belong to Grandpa. It felt strange, like I was stepping into his shoes for real this time. I took Mom’s car and drove Grandma to the sea. She sat quietly beside me, not saying much, but I knew she was lost in her world.
When we got there, I had already set up a small table by the shore. The sea breeze felt cool, and the sound of the waves was calming.
I helped Grandma out of the car and guided her to the table. After she sat down, I lit the candles, their warm glow flickering in the wind.
“George!” Grandma said with a big smile. “You remembered our date by the sea.”
Her voice was weak, but I could see how happy she was. She looked at me like I really was Grandpa, her eyes full of warmth.
“Yes, Gretchen,” I said, sitting beside her. “I never forgot. How could I?”
She nodded slowly, still smiling. “It’s been so long since we’ve been here.”
That evening, I served Grandma the pasta Grandpa always made. I had spent hours in the kitchen earlier, following his recipe, hoping it would taste just like she remembered.
As she ate, I watched her closely, searching her face for any sign of recognition. She took slow bites, and I could see something change in her expression—a flicker of happiness.
After dinner, I played their favorite song, the one they used to dance to. The familiar melody filled the air, and I stood up, holding out my hand. “Would you like to dance, Gretchen?”
She looked at me, her eyes softening. “Of course, George.” I gently helped her up, and we swayed together.
For the first time in a long while, she smiled. In that moment, I could see she wasn’t lost in confusion; she was back in her happiest memories.
On the way home, she held my hand. “Thank you, George,” she said. “This was the best date ever.”
I just smiled at her, my heart heavy but full.
Two days later, Grandma passed away. I remember waking up that morning and feeling like something was different, like the house was quieter than usual.
When Mom told me, I didn’t know what to say. We just sat together in silence for a while, both of us crying. It was hard to accept, even though we knew it was coming.
I felt deep sadness, but at the same time, a strange sense of peace. I knew Gretchen was finally with her George again, where she belonged.
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