Don't ever compare

Many times throughout my life my hands have been the cause of comment.

I've been told everything from my hands are beautiful to my hands are soft, both in a good way and in a way that implied I have never worked a hard day in my life. I've been told my hands are magic (whatever that means) and that my hands wouldn't know what a wrench is to save my life. I've been told I have the hands of a woman and the hands of someone wise (again, whatever that means).

There's a lump on my right hand, the result of a boxer's fracture. Walls and the tops of men's heads will always win.

I've had callouses from blisters caused by too much action on shitty guitars and a wicked breaking ball. I have had bloodied knuckles, blackened fingernails from working on a shitty car that required more time and attention than the neediest ex. I even have scars from teeth.

I just happen to heal fast.

Even now, my hands are torn to shreds from hooks, the sun, fishing line slicing me open like a hot knife through butter. And still, they heal almost as fast as they wound. So my hands look soft, if not well tanned.

I don't know why my hands are the way that they are. They serve as a reminder to me that even when things are difficult and messy and even a little bloody, time will heal, beauty will come back around.

Anyway, I have to replace an exhaust line on a boat turbine.

Titty sprinkles!