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!
