Son-One recently became engaged to a most wonderful young woman. They met through mutual friends of co-workers at Starbucks. (Another reason I love Starbucks, actually.) To announce their engagement to friends and family near and far, my future daughter-in-law (DIL) posted a photo on Facebook (naturally) of the two of them, her hand prominently featured to show off her glittering new engagement ring.
And her hand is beautiful. Her fingers long and slender. Her skin flawless. Her nails beautifully shaped and natural. I am in awe of beautiful hands. I notice. I envy.
Somehow, upon my father's death...and later my mother's...my hands turned into his/hers/theirs. Farmer hands. Factory worker hands. Beautician hands ravaged by harsh chemicals. Genetically rather short and stubby, ruddy of complexion, dry, wrinkled, now a bit blotchy and splotchy, thinning skin, prominent veins. Nails that never grow evenly and cuticles that encroach readily.
Admittedly I don't pay much attention to my hands, so mainly I am to blame for the results of this lifetime of neglect. I really dislike getting professional manicures (I've had maybe 3 in my life). It seems a crazy waste of money to me. (Not to mention feeling so silly sitting there while a bored manicurist tends to my fingernails, as if this has any impact on world peace!) And while I love buying lotions and cremes that smell heavenly, I mostly forget to use them. Also, my health-nut friends tell me I don't drink enough water to hydrate my skin adequately (I'm working on that one).
Often, when I am aware of them at all, I feel embarrassed by my hands. I have been known to "hide" them strategically at times inside pockets, folded demurely in my lap, snuggled in gloves. But sometimes I gaze at them, often on the Yoga mat where my hands are RIGHT THERE UNDER MY NOSE, and I feel a grudging sense of pride and familial connection.
My parents were hard workers. They grew up with their hands in the soil and on a plow handle in rural areas of Illinois and Indiana in the 1930's where, with their parents and siblings, they toiled to literally scrape a life out of the dirt. They moved to the city as a young married couple and went to work in the textile industry -- Dad dyeing canvas cloth for manufacturing awnings and tennis shoes (Keds!) and Mom sewing Maidenform bras and girdles in near sweatshop conditions (occasional needles through fingers a workplace hazard). Later she opened her own beauty shop, exposing those hands to the chemicals needed to color and curl other women's hair. They used their hands to cradle babies, lay wood flooring, remodel houses, work on cars, repair, paint, wallpaper, cook, clean, wash, landscape.....
The hands I see on the ends of my arms are a history of my parents... and of me. They may not be pretty, but they represent a nobility of character, I think. A history of toil, of experience, of love.
Still, I will encourage DIL to drink plenty of water, use lots of lotion, wear protective gloves and try to take care of those lovely hands better than I have mine, but to also know they will not be perfect forever. She has already bathed her child hundreds of times, washed stacks of dishes, wielded a hammer in their new home, planted a flower garden, steamed espresso, carried trays of food to waiting customers, and now works in a clinic where hand-washing rituals are obsessive....time will take it's toll. And her hands will tell a story, too.
At least, that's the view from here....©
And her hand is beautiful. Her fingers long and slender. Her skin flawless. Her nails beautifully shaped and natural. I am in awe of beautiful hands. I notice. I envy.
Somehow, upon my father's death...and later my mother's...my hands turned into his/hers/theirs. Farmer hands. Factory worker hands. Beautician hands ravaged by harsh chemicals. Genetically rather short and stubby, ruddy of complexion, dry, wrinkled, now a bit blotchy and splotchy, thinning skin, prominent veins. Nails that never grow evenly and cuticles that encroach readily.
Admittedly I don't pay much attention to my hands, so mainly I am to blame for the results of this lifetime of neglect. I really dislike getting professional manicures (I've had maybe 3 in my life). It seems a crazy waste of money to me. (Not to mention feeling so silly sitting there while a bored manicurist tends to my fingernails, as if this has any impact on world peace!) And while I love buying lotions and cremes that smell heavenly, I mostly forget to use them. Also, my health-nut friends tell me I don't drink enough water to hydrate my skin adequately (I'm working on that one).
Often, when I am aware of them at all, I feel embarrassed by my hands. I have been known to "hide" them strategically at times inside pockets, folded demurely in my lap, snuggled in gloves. But sometimes I gaze at them, often on the Yoga mat where my hands are RIGHT THERE UNDER MY NOSE, and I feel a grudging sense of pride and familial connection.
My parents were hard workers. They grew up with their hands in the soil and on a plow handle in rural areas of Illinois and Indiana in the 1930's where, with their parents and siblings, they toiled to literally scrape a life out of the dirt. They moved to the city as a young married couple and went to work in the textile industry -- Dad dyeing canvas cloth for manufacturing awnings and tennis shoes (Keds!) and Mom sewing Maidenform bras and girdles in near sweatshop conditions (occasional needles through fingers a workplace hazard). Later she opened her own beauty shop, exposing those hands to the chemicals needed to color and curl other women's hair. They used their hands to cradle babies, lay wood flooring, remodel houses, work on cars, repair, paint, wallpaper, cook, clean, wash, landscape.....
The hands I see on the ends of my arms are a history of my parents... and of me. They may not be pretty, but they represent a nobility of character, I think. A history of toil, of experience, of love.
Still, I will encourage DIL to drink plenty of water, use lots of lotion, wear protective gloves and try to take care of those lovely hands better than I have mine, but to also know they will not be perfect forever. She has already bathed her child hundreds of times, washed stacks of dishes, wielded a hammer in their new home, planted a flower garden, steamed espresso, carried trays of food to waiting customers, and now works in a clinic where hand-washing rituals are obsessive....time will take it's toll. And her hands will tell a story, too.
At least, that's the view from here....©
