Left Hand
I have very ugly hands.  Seriously.  Never could I have been a hand model.  Hands are most definitely one of those heredity things.  I didn't fair well in the gene pool of hands like my sister Diane did.  She had great hands and big boobs growing up.  I, had neither!

It's not that my hands are big like man hands, nor are they tiny and don't match the rest of my body size.  They are the right size to sit just past my somewhat prominently bony wrists.  They are though old looking.  I do realize that at 47 my hands have weathered a lot, but they looked old long before their time.  I thank my Great Grandma Lodema for that.

I hate fingernail polish.  I just don't get it for the most part.  Why would I want to highlight attention to my old looking hands with some sort of unnatural looking color.  I don't even like to wear colors in my clothing, so I am NOT going to paint it on my fingernails. I am far too careless and much too reckless with my hands to wear fingernail polish.  I don't want to constantly be having to have my nails re-done.  Whether they are real nails or artificial nails I will not partake in nail polish.  I've asked my husband from time to time about painted nails.  He dislikes them too.  He claims he prefers old looking hands.  Doubtful, but sweet.

My hands are snaked by large veins along the same line that you might see on a weightlifter.  I don't think my reps with 10-12 pound weights created that!  My middle knuckles seem overly lined and wrinkly.  My nails are short and if you didn't know better, you'd swear I was a blue collar worker.  My right hand is a bit mangled from a home improvement accident and several hand surgeries to correct it.  It left me with not much feeling in my ring and little finger, massive scar tissue in my hand which constricts it inward and two knuckles that are raised up.  That in turn has caused me not to be able to lay my hand flat or bend my wrist to the right angle to do regular push ups without altering greatly my form.  It also has taken away the ability to play a full octave on the piano with my right hand.

Yucky Right Hand

To add to the ugliness of my hands, in particular my right hand, last winter I tripped up the wooden basement stairs with a laundry basement in my hand.  I landed my full body weight against my right ring finger's top joint.  It broke instantly.  That finger was not fully functioning to begin with, but now it is turned inward at the top joint.  To me it wasn't worth a surgery as it wasn't totally usable anyway.  I'm told that hand will have some arthritis in it from all the injuries it has incurred.  Battle scars from living I think.

Forget what my hands look like.  I suppose that really isn't the purpose of them anyway.  They are vessels of use, of purpose.  I thought about all things my hands have done.  They deserve to look old, to look weathered, to look used like a good book.

My hands have played piano, gripped bicycle handlebars, pushed mowers, held paintbrushes, tools, peeled apples, cut vegetables, rolled out pie dough, scrubbed floors, toilets, dug out bushes, planted seeds and trees, shingled a roof, held and turned the pages of books, washed cars, carried furniture, held children, combed hair, rubbed sore shoulders, wrote and typed lots of words, patted an arm or shoulder, hugged people, held Doug's hand.  They have been cut and bled, been broken, operated on, had a ring put on them, burned on the oven, and over worked to the point where they have been swollen and stiff.  My hands have gripped the steering wheel of cars, opened jars, clapped for joy, hoisted kids on my shoulders, supported my body weight to climb ropes, do push-ups and lift weights.  They too have held my own face in them when sobs have over taken me.

I suppose my hands do both noble and ignoble things.  They are both the concrete conduits of tasks and the expression and extension of emotions.  Despite how mine look, I am so grateful for their use.


  1. Interesting blog......I gotta hand it to you.

  2. Prefer the hands just as they are. Michigan