Friday, October 12, 2012

Coffee, but not on Thursday ~ Hands

I wish I had beautiful hands.

Hands touch, soothe, excite, comfort. Hug and hold and type and jot thoughts down with a pen.

My husband's hands are rough and callused from all his hard work. Sometimes his fingerprints stand out in stark relief, marked with grease. They look strong and capable, and ever the more erotic against the smooth skin of my thigh or waist.

Ahh, but I digress.

A writer ought to have amazing hands, don't you think? Hands like this:

image from

image from

For most people hands just exist, down there at the end of their wrists, very convenient and helpful. I doubt they think about them all that much, until they get a sliver or a paper cut.

I have crone hands, and I am aware of them almost every minute of every day.

Not because they are ugly. If it were just ugliness, I could get a manicure and a sweet polish job like that glittery metallic purple.

I have eczema that currently manifests all stress into my hands, and so my hands hurt all the time.

My child grabs my hand to lead me somewhere, and I gasp in pain.

My husband holds my hand and brushes his thumb against my skin as a gesture of affection, and I hold my breath, wondering if I can pull my hand away from him without hurting his feelings.

I walk past a sink full of dishes two dozen times before I'll finally sigh and pull on heavy-duty purple rubber gloves to tackle the job. The gloves don't even help much - dry is good, but heat is still bad.

Shampoo - aargghh. Absolute torture, burning into my flesh like acid. I buy brands that aren't tested on animals, because the cruelty of animal testing is very real to me. I test it on myself every time. And it hurts.

I open and close doors with my elbows whenever possible.

The other night I tripped in my daughter's room and fell straight down onto my side, crashing to the floor like an old oak in the forest, the litter of toys on the floor causing bruises and abrasions to my right ankle, hip, flank, and shoulder. It didn't even occur to me to try to catch myself, because anything made of hard plastic with an edge would tear up my hands.

I wonder if a palm reader would get lost on an endless journey, following the lines of my palm?

I think I'm a little lost myself, today.

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