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Hold them up to the light. And stare.
Jun. 23rd, 2002 12:33 amI love my hands.
Once upon a time, I hated them. Once upon a time I sat at the back of a school bus and flipped a guy off, and he grabbed my hand and laughed at it. He held my captive hand up by the wrist for the world to see, and announced, "Look, this chick has hands like a man!" Once upon a time I sat with my hands shoved under my Discman the whole bus ride home so that no one would look at them. I thought they embodied everything that was wrong with me, clumsy and clunky, ungraceful and unfeminine.
Now, I love my hands. They do, indeed, embody everything right with me. They are indeed masculine hands. Veined and muscular, with blunt-tipped fingers and a lethargic, wiry energy.
I love my hands.
Once upon a time, I hated them. Once upon a time I sat at the back of a school bus and flipped a guy off, and he grabbed my hand and laughed at it. He held my captive hand up by the wrist for the world to see, and announced, "Look, this chick has hands like a man!" Once upon a time I sat with my hands shoved under my Discman the whole bus ride home so that no one would look at them. I thought they embodied everything that was wrong with me, clumsy and clunky, ungraceful and unfeminine.
Now, I love my hands. They do, indeed, embody everything right with me. They are indeed masculine hands. Veined and muscular, with blunt-tipped fingers and a lethargic, wiry energy.
I love my hands.
