Hands

I have small hands.

I understand that this is a loaded statement. And if you're at all like me, your mind automatically left the thought of hands altogether and jumped to something different. Something farther south. Or maybe you're not at all like me - and this is very likely a good thing. Anyway, I'll wait without comment until you get back on track. Hint: coffee can.

Yeah, that's a lie.

...

I'm self-conscious about these hands. It's as if the manufacturer took a palm - already small - and affixed five vienna sausages to it. There are people who can place their fingers around their wrist and still have room to spare. When I do this, there remains a good inch and a half between the end of my thumb and middle finger. Johnny Bench could hold 7 baseballs at one time ... in one hand. He's also got the best argument of any as the greatest catcher of all time. Mine, well never been particularly strong fingers, unsurprising when one considers their daintiness, and in my little league days I was constantly jamming or spraining the fingers on my glove hand, especially the thumb, especially while catching. Yes, you could say my hand issues go back a few years.

My occupation involves a great deal of face to face communication and I use my hands as a communication tool. Thus, there I sit (or stand), gesticulating wildly. Perhaps my audience notices, perhaps they don't. I very much notice. Now mind you, it doesn't lead me hide them under my shirt cuff or keep them under the table - but I'm conscious of them. It's silly for any number of reasons; most obviously because I can't do anything about them. You can't transplant a live hand and it would be the height of idiocy to cut them off simply to get prosthetics of greater size. The height of idiocy.

We're stuck together, these hands and I. And we'll get by.