I saw a sign today that said: “LOOKING FOR GOOD HANDS.”
And I thought, what does that even mean? “Good hands?” Do they mean, like,
baby hands…? Because I would think, by default, they have the best hands, you know?
Fresh, unlabored, unspotted, tight.
I’ve never thought so much before about what it means to have “Good hands”…
Is it like having good boobs because I feel like that’s a thing. I don’t think I have good boobs. They’re too small and a little uneven I think; but that could just be the tilt of my head when I look at them.
Anyway, maybe they meant to write “God hands”…But that would make even less sense because does God even have hands? Would He need them? Well, I guess He would because people use the word “touched by God” and it would kind of be weird if He didn’t have hands…I mean, what would He touch people with then, his nose? But I digress.
I’ve always thought I had “Good hands”. They’re petite. Not too many noticeable scars. Just a small one at the hinge of my thumb where my dad accidentally scratched me one time when I was young in the middle of a wrestle war, and I cried and he cried, so I won. And my nail bed isn’t too bad either. It’s clean. Maybe in need of a trim, but definitely perky. Can nails be described as perky? Oh well. And I haven’t got too many wrinkles yet; I mean, I’m only in my twenties. But now that I’m looking I can see these lines, almost like an etching, that no matter how hard I rub, don’t go away…
At one time I thought I could be a hand model. I guess everybody thinks that at some point. And now, I’m starting to think my hands aren’t good enough to be models, just like the rest of me isn’t fit enough to be a model.
But they’re hands! How can one not have “Good hands”! (Unless they have none, then I’m sure they have some other rockstar limbs!)
But even my aunt, who suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and winces at the pain of bruised and swollen knuckles, has the sweetest hands that daily aid and comfort the elderly in a nursing home. And my dad, whose calloused, irrevocably dirtied hands have built the very desk my hands now rest on. And of course my mom, who flashes the most vibrant nail polish, applies hand cream ritually, wears gloves to fight the cold, and also played with my toes as a baby, undoubtedly has the best hands.
Now that I think about it, it’s actually really hard to discriminate against hands. I don’t think anyone’s hands aren’t “Good hands”…
Well, except maybe Lady Macbeth. Her hands were pretty bloody.
I am not a poet 