Hands

I’m probably a little unusual in that I notice at hands.  I’ve never really liked the way my own look, but I love what they’ve been able to do over their lifetime; they have been so reliable.  I know they will become arthritic.  Todd already teases me because they are bony and veiny.  I saw a procedure once where an old lady got some fat pumped into her hands.  That was one of the weirdest body enhancements I’d heard of.  Who cares?  Actually, who cares about most of the things they’re doing these days.

There was a period in elementary school I almost forget about.  I had warts all over the backs of my hands.  Not a few, even the doctor was impressed.  I had them frozen off.  They turned white.  The 1^st graders I tutored were shocked by all the white dots I wore as the treatment took effect.  Even after they healed, it took me a long time to reconcile that I had smooth hands again; it had been such a long time.

I actually sat next to a hand model in high school choir.  I’d never known there was such a thing, being young in my education and all.  She had womanly hands in the sense that they were unmarred, perfectly manicured, cared for.  Her fingers were long and skinny.  She was so interesting; it was the weirdest job I’d ever heard of.   How does a person qualify or even find out where to audition for such a position?  I’ve never looked at dishwashing soap or lotion ads the same since.

I spent many an evening alongside my mom at the kitchen table painting my nails starting back in 6^th grade.  Dark reds like she wore.  Kind of how a girl in jr. high experiments with her new-found world of make-up.  I rarely wear polish on my fingers these days (nor do I wear all that make-up like I did as a teen).  But I do remember the tragedy of broken nails and chipped polish.  What a dumb load to carry.  But she worked in a bank and wanted to look nice.  I went to school and wanted to look like my mom.

I’m drawn to hands with smooth cuticles and wonder how that works.  I wash my hands maybe 28 times a day.  I don’t bother with lotion most of the time because I know I’ll be cutting up chicken or mopping the floor within minutes.  I hate to see good lotion get washed away.  And yet I rub Vaseline into my cuticles once I’m on the road.   For most of my adult life I’ve gone with really short, no-nonsense nails.  I have a lot of questions when it comes to long, fake nails—I think it’s probably because I have no experience with them.  I wonder how they type or make bread.  Don’t they break when they’re cleaning the blinds?  Does the nail polish chip?  How does she change diapers without scratching the baby?  Do they ever fall off?  I’m equally fascinated by women whose polish matches their outfits.  When does this happen?  Who a) thinks that far ahead and b) takes that kind of time to change it out all the time and c) can sit that long while they dry so they don’t get smudged?  I don’t even know what we’re having for dinner most nights, let alone what’s happening at the end of my fingers.  There is so much about the adult world I’m completely ignorant about.  I must’ve missed that class along with the money management one.  (Just for the record, I love black nail polish on short, chic nails.  I know that’s hard to believe, but I honestly love it.  I’d consider it; but it’s like getting the car washed—just not that important to me.)

I know Todd’s not happy about it, but I haven’t worn my diamond in years.  Partly because I read a National Geographic article about diamond mining, while at the same time I was constantly taking it off to deal with kids and bread dough.  I was always scrubbing it and forgetting where I’d put it.  It’s just so much more me to wear the thick silver band Andrew made me in his jewelry class.  Plus my diamond doesn’t even fit me anymore.  Sad.  But I’m enamored with the rings I see on fingers.   To me, they say a lot about a person.

I’m a little skeptical about men with very soft, smooth hands, too.  Probably because my dad was an upholsterer and always had beat-up fingers and cuticles.  Why aren’t there splinters or healing cuts or stains?  What does he do all day?  But then I remind myself, he’s most likely a surgeon or dentist who has to be very careful, his hands being his livelihood and all.  Or maybe he’s a businessman who doesn’t have time to garden or work with wood.  I get that.  I think it must be a weird thing to notice people’s hands.  I’ve had one friend confess that she does, but I think maybe we are the only two people in the world. 

Girls will remember what it was like to hold hands with your girlfriends back when you were little.  To be so innocently connected.

I remember a moment in time when I took a conscious snapshot with my mind.  Mitchell was young, maybe 4, and I watched his little fingers and hands knead the dough beside me.  I knew this stage was fleeting, that I wouldn’t have him young like this for much longer.  I have his little hands with those pudgy knuckles etched in my mind, I savor that memory.  And wish to relive it for a day.

Think of how we long to have a brand new baby grasp onto our big finger.  It’s almost as innate for us to reach for her tiny fingers as it is for her to hug ours.  We yearn for that connectedness, the feeling of skin on skin.  It’s nearly a subconscious act.  We reach for one another’s hands in hospital rooms or when we visit with the older people in our lives—their skin is thin and wrinkly like tissue paper, so we try to be gentle.

It used to be such an intimate gesture back in the olden days, holding hands.  Even still it’s an obvious statement that you’re with someone, that you’re something to each other.  It’s one of the first ways you tell each other you’re committed.  It’s an exciting part of falling in love, a throw-back to old-fashioned courtship and years gone by.  For some, it still means something.  I imagine most of you can still remember the tingly sensation of connecting with someone you were attracted to.  It was one of the first assurances that she felt the same way.

I hope you are still doing it.  I hope you link fingers whenever you get a chance.  I hope you hold hands with your kids when you walk—there is a sweetness about a giant rough dad hand enveloping a tiny helpless daughter’s hand.  My dad still holds my hand, and maybe that’s weird, but it’s more important to me that he knows I’m still his little girl.  I hope you hold hands when you watch movies, when you’re scared or excited or just together.

I hope if you aren’t, you’ll consider doing it more.  Be the first to reach out to a friend, to reach down to a loved one while you’re talking or taking a walk, to assure a child know she’s secure and protected.  It calms us, connects us, and reminds us of why we’re together.  Even after 24 years, I still love the feeling of his hand in mine and I know as long as we’re still holding hands we’re still committed.  And that’s something I’m not willing to let go of.