I wonder how my Grandmother Strother got in my body and replaced my hands with her own.
I used to push her veins in and/or roll a Matchbox car over them as if they were roads. This was obviously before video games were created.
But I never seriously considered what my hands would look like as I aged.
As soon as I got to the office this morning, I Googled how to plump up your hands. The fillers that are available sound painful, and probably aren’t covered by insurance. Apparently, Anthem doesn’t understand the angst my wrinkled hands are causing me.
I considered doing some extra work to pay for the plumping, until I reached for my pen to write down a thought. In that moment, I realized that my hands have worked hard for the past 54 years. Maybe I was becoming a Mean Girl to my body – judging it, rolling my eyes, talking about it on the internet. So, I looked for a better story.
Why My Hands Rule
They held my pencil during sixteen years of school, developing that bump all writers used to have on their first knuckle.
They washed dishes at Bonanza, served burgers at Busch Gardens, and shook the hands of clients at my first radio sales job.
They were the bed into which I rested my head after an especially fun party.
My hands held both my babies and the wrong baby. They petted my cat, and were bandaged after the cat bit me repeatedly.
They stated “I love you” to the kids as they got on the bus to go to school.
They have come together in prayer, and met before my heart when I Namaste’d after a hot yoga class. They also caught me when I collapsed after my hot yoga class.
My hands have typed blogs and books and articles. They have clapped at concerts and been thrown into the air victoriously at a Redskins game. Not too often, but occasionally.
There’s something about the power of hands.
When my dad was passing away, I held it together until his kidneys shut down and water filled his hands. He had hands like his mother, and I have hands like him. And when I was down, dad would hold my hand and make me feel safe.
Hands are our point of connection, the part of us which waves hello and holds on as we hug goodbye.
Hands are how we stroke the face of those we love, and grab our children before they run out into the street. They are how we clap to music, and punch our siblings (sorry, Linda and Mark).
Maybe We Should Sing Our Body Electric
If you’re being a mean girl or guy to your body, perhaps you should sit down and thank it for all of its hard work.
For many of us, our bodies have been running for years on Starbucks and Coke and Pringles. They’re pretty miraculous.
I think I’ll wait a while on the hand filler. Perhaps I shouldn’t inject my hands with needles and plastic stuff.
Because they have earned every wrinkle, and every vein.
Here’s to the hand. May you forever wave.
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