So, why the hand? I found through blog hopping a photo challenge for each day of February, and as you might guess, today is “Hands”. I used my creative license and went with just the one hand. How on earth would I take a photo of both of my hands?
More importantly is the question as to what that hand has to say. Or at least what the hand says to me.
For as long as I can remember I’ve known that I have Man Hands. It has been scientifically studied and it’s true. I’ve felt self conscious about my hands ever since elementary school, the age at which when all good complexes are born, and I continue to feel that way, (although at a significantly lower level). I still cringe when I have to confess, (and this happens all the time don’t you know), my ring size.
They’re also bony, with bulging veins. And then there are the hints of the age spots soon to appear.
When I was in High School my grandparents on my mother’s side moved from Washington to Idaho and lived near us. We’d never been around them much before and so us kids never did develop much of a relationship with them. Certainly not a close one. Guess I should’n’t make assumptions about my sibling’s relationship with them. But I certainly never felt like we were much more then acquaintances. I was actually more than a little bit scared of them. My Grandpa was loud and opinionated and my Granny, I believe, was bedridden that entire time when they lived in that house. Which seemed kinda scary to me at the time. Now it just makes me terribly sad.
I felt that me and my grandparents had nothing in common. Other than Grandpa’s love for cheetos. Yet I was so timid around him that I don’t even know if ever worked up the courage to ask if I could have some of the cheetos that always seemed to be out on a table. Everything in that house reeked of cigarette smoke; probably the cheetos would’ve tasted pretty nasty.
When my mom would take us to their house to visit I would feel so uncomfortable. It was smoky. It was boring. I had nothing in common with these old people. The TV was always so loud, you had to practically scream if you had something to say. It made it very difficult to have any kind of conversation. There was a bit of a ritual when it came to visiting with Granny. I’d go into her bedroom, where she’d be lying on back. I’d stand awkwardly next to her bed, saying hello and not much more. It was the only way I spent anytime with Granny. I remember the dozens of pill bottles crammed on her bedside table. It was later that I wondered what all those pills were for and realized how dangerous that amount of medication had to be. Perhaps they affected her state of body and mind negatively. Which is an entirely different issue to address.
And I remember her hands. I can see them lying on top of the covers, large and veiny with long fingers and covered in age spots. That’s when I knew where my hands came from. I wish that I could say that all the years of me feeling ashamed and embarrassed about something so trivial disappeared and that I embraced my hands lovingly. Pshaw, things are never that simple and uncomplicated with me.
But over time the more I thought of her hands and mine, the less I would feel self conscious of them. It was like my hands made sense. That they were not freaks of nature but an inheritance from my Granny and that made me feel like I belonged to that side of the family. It took years for me to fully appreciate that. And even though I have no memory of ever having had a real conversation with her, (what was I going to say? “Why Grandmother, what large hands you have!”). (Which would’ve been funny.) I like to think that we had a connection through our hands. And that is important because I feel like it is the only one we really had.
Until I found out what good taste she had…
So Wes skipped school this week and went skiing with another delinquent, Drew. Blame Kevin for making the suggestion. You know how much I hate him missing school.
Anyhow. I worried all day about those two 11 year olds loose on a freezing mountain top where who knows what could happen or who knows who might do who knows what to them. But it was for nothing, cuz they returned safe and sound and super, duper, tired. Bet you can’t tell…
And what would a post be without this screen shot of the woman I don’t know whether to love or hate. Hate to love? Love to hate? Since I’m DVR’ing her show now I think I know the answer.