HandsGrowing up I was always jealous of the hands of other women.Hands by LavenderBoots
Small, graceful, delicate: these words came to mind when the bank teller would hand me my receipt, or when I watched a fellow student take notes in elegant, clear-to-read penmanship. They were beautiful, dainty things like wings of a butterfly; long fingered and graceful, the legs of a spider making its gossamer web. Those words would never be used describe my hands.
I've always been told I have large hands for a girl.
I would feign pride when my hands matched up to my boyfriends’ in size. I could see the look in their eyes when our fingertips kissed and the bases of our palms stayed even, I watched as the smile turned false.
I don’t feel that way anymore.
My hands were not made to look tiny and “lady-like.” I have large square palms and thick even fingers. You can see the places where I've broken joints by the tiny bend to the left of my middle finger, or in the twist to the right on my pinky
I am a fanatic, an extremist, a daredevil.
I am a fraidy-cat, a goose, a wimp.
I am a dreamer. I am a writer. I am an artist.
I am a goofball who paints her nails every week, tends to bake sweets and can always be found doodling doodles.