Do any of you have a physical insecurity that just tends to get worse with age? I have a big one, and it isn’t what you’d think.
First off, though, I’d like to preface this discussion with the fact that I know I’m being silly. I in no way want to trivialize those with actual handicaps or disabilities. I honor and respect the challenges you face… and in this respect it makes my insecurity even more glaringly senseless…
… but it’s there nonetheless.
My friends most likely believe me to be speaking about my chest… or lack thereof… and although I have played around with the thought of a cup-size of augmentation… the thought fades in and out without much day to day thought at all.
But my hands… OH my hands!
They’re in front of me everyday and what I see are years and years of abuse.
You see… I have “working” hands in every sense of the word.
I went through seventeen years of…
This…
and…
This (sorry… gross, I know).
I LITERALLY have Time… on my hands…
… and in this day and age of Instagram… it’s the age that shows.
I want so badly to have hands like these (hand model Ashly Covington)…
But THIS is my reality (actual drawing… GAH!)
This hand holds 2 fractures, too many jammed fingers to count, and years of pushing and pulling on skin that was already fair and delicate to begin with.
Which is why I have become the master disguiser. I’ll flash a wrist…
Or pop some nails into the picture…
… but you’ll rarely get a full shot.
And this makes me sad. Sad because I want so desperately to look beyond their exterior and to revere their strength. The strength that carried me through one of the toughest sports imaginable, the strength that helps me to carry furniture, to build rooms and to design spaces, and the strength intertwined with sweetness that allows me to grasp the perfect little hands of my 2 year old each and every day.
My hands, possibly more than any other part of my body… are what define me… and I need to accept them… warts (figure of speech) and all…
Can you give me a hand?
