What's at the end of your arms?

Images of the human hand have been much on my mind this month.  I have never liked mine.  Short stubby fingers, with puckers of flesh at every knuckle. The backs of my hands eternally dimpled and resembling nothing so much as a Cabbage Patch Kid sans any cuteness. When the style was pointy nails and soft, pink polish I was left with a handful of chips and hangnails galore.  When the style morphed into spade shaped french manicures I simply (pardon the pun) threw up my hands in despair.  I could never manage to make a fashion statement with my paws.  No frescoed ceilings for me.  But who cannot be struck by the image above? If I was a guy I'd want my hands to look like that!

A few years ago I went to the Rodin museum with my baby sister. I wanted to draw up a chair before every exhibit and sit and stare with my mouth open like a gawky tourist.  All the works were scary and breathtaking and I found myself wanting to wrap my arms around them to absorb that exciting essence that only great art can give.  I don't recall if I saw this specific sculpture or not; but you've got to admit: Those are some damn fine hands!  Nothing chiseled about my paws, good art or bad.

My hands are not pretty and I have never fully appreciated them until now.  No, I haven't been diagnosed with a mysterious finger disease and I have not slammed anything in a drawer necessitating months of limited movement.  And that, I guess, is the point.  Why should it take some sort of catastrophe to be grateful for what I have?  (Just taking about my hands.  No deeper meaning or implication if you please.)

They can do some pretty cool stuff.  They held, diapered, soothed, and to my great shame, occasionally smacked my darling daughters.  After I taught myself to crochet my hands have created some really good work that I have given as gifts, and to my great surprise and pleasure, have occasionally sold to actual clients.  And my hands can type.  Not very quickly and I rely more heavily on Spellcheck now than ever before.  But type I can and that allows me to put  words down here on the cyber pages of this blog and elsewhere.  And I believe that action is helping to keep me sane.

Of course there's a lot to be said for having the chance to hug my children and grandson, too.  So here's to what I will try to consider something other than the Ugliest Hands in America.  Ready?  Here they are.

                                                 That wasn't scary at all.
                                                          Yes, it was.