Hand Job

Yesterday was a bad day. A day where I felt ugly and podgy and my hair was limp and staticky and my skin was dry and splotchy. The reasonable thing to do on a day like that is to hang cloth over all shiny surfaces and do something for yourself that makes you feel sexy and in charge: jerk off, buy new underwear, ask someone out, say something dirty to your paramour.

But instead of being halfway kind to myself, I looked at the splotches under flourescent lighting in the bathroom at work and thought thoughts like "You would be a better person if your skin weren't so bad," or "You might be actually sexy if you had a waist," or, most eloquently, "Ugh."

I blame my pants. It was laundry day, so I had to wear my last pair of clean pants and they are too small. Tight tight tight. In the wrong places, as far as I'm concerned.

Not so for everyone, happily for me. I put the Evil Pants on in the morning and said "ugh" at the same time Eric said "Wow."

"I feel gross. I am having that sausage feeling."

"But you look great. And those pants are very slimming, right here." He gesticulated towards my hips, his smile fading to confusion when he saw the "Are you calling me fat?" look cross my face.

Poor straight boys. Girls are fucked up. I know he was not calling me fat. He was being lovely and kind. But I honestly, though briefly, thought "Does he think my hips normally NEED slimming?"

Back awhile ago, I had dubbed this frame of mind Dumpy Little Pudding. Because of David Scrimshaw's very nice comment, I have changed that to Blue Triangle, because it reminds me of nice things and not of mean people.

The feeling carried over to this morning, and although it's pretty much faded, I'm still a little blue triangle-y.

Today, I've been for a run, eaten a small amount of chocolate, had some brown rice for dinner and put on some clothes that I think look very nice on me. I have avoided the bathroom mirror at work.

I have decided that I am going to love my hands. Even if only for this post.

My hands have been my most hated part of my body for years. When I was a kid, back when we used things like pens and pencils, I would grip my pencils really really hard. The pressure built up an ugly callous-like pad on the middle finger of my right hand. It was not a callous, believe me, because I tried to pumice the fucker off a couple of times and that hurt like a sumbitch. It's much smaller now, what with all the typing, but you can still see it.

Also, I have always felt that my fingers were short and squat. Though I have had several people tell me I was crazy and that I had long fingers, I do not. I didn't understand how people could even think this until I was talking to Mike Feuerstack a few years ago. He and I have the same hands. Not literally, of course, but the same size, same kind of nails, and our fingers are built the same way. "People are always telling me what long fingers I have," he said as we were standing palm to palm. "But that's just because they see the top two phalanges when I'm playing guitar. And those are way out of proportion to the bottom phalange and the rest of my hand. Because lookit, my fingers are actually small and stumpy."

"Like mine," I said. "We have short, stumpy fingers."

"But at least we know how to fool people," he replied.

Last night, after a few beers at the Dirty Oak, Aurèle made a comment about how he was a hand afficianado. I stuck my hands in my pockets. "Eesh. Had I known, I would have kept my hands in my pockets all night."

"No no no," he waved his hand. "You have nice hands. I noticed already. Not, you know, in *that* way," and here a quick look to Eric to confirm he was not trying to shark me, "but just because I always notice." I was pleased by the surprise compliment.

Ages ago when I told Eric I hated my hands, he was taken aback. I think he actually gasped. "But but but! But."

"No," I said. "They are not nice. It is okay. I can live with this."

"But, but! You HAVE to like them! They're beautiful."

He sent me this photo not long after, which I love, and in which I love my hand:


Other things I like:
- the life, head, and fate lines on my right palm make a triangle
- the scar on my left thumb
- the fact that my right pinky is all crookedy
- the squishiness of the pads on the proximal phalanges of my middle fingers
- how big my mounds of venus are

My hands are very useful, and they give me, and other people, much pleasure.

It's a start, I suppose. I don't think I'll ever actually love them.

Perhaps the best way to end a Blue Triangle day is to not do the dishes, but make yourself a cup of tea and go to bed with a good book. Held in your momentarily beloved hands.