Hands

Yesterday, on the way home from class, I sat on the light rail flipping through one of the many magazines that graces my mail box every month. I came across an ad for nail polish and was confronted with a picture of hands that looked very much like these:

Gorgeous, right? Of course, my first reaction was to compare these hands to those that were holding the magazine: my own. I looked them over and was disappointed that they look nothing like the model's hands. I fidgeted and looked around me to be sure that nobody else on the train saw what I saw. I didn't want them noticing the scars or unkempt appearance. I wasn't even wearing nail polish!

Later at the gym, when I had a loooooong hour on the elliptical to think on the subject further, I decided I should be proud of my hands. They're not pretty (I've actually never liked the appearance of them) but they've probably participated in a lot more fulfilling work than that model's hands have. With that, I began to look at my hands to interpret what they say about me. Turns out, they say a lot. And yours probably do, too.

Right now I have a burn mark across the base of my right thumb. I got it while baking cupcakes with Anna for her school's bake sale to benefit the Make-A-Wish Foundation. My hand hit one of the racks upon retrieving the delicious strawberry cupcakes from the oven. There are also faint, dark stains on both hands, the result of staining a wooden foot stool I made. My left thumb has a scar that bubbles out slightly from an accident that involved sleepy, pregnant me in the kitchen with a knife at 5 in the morning because I wanted to make dinner ahead in the Crock Pot. The nails aren't painted because polish typically lasts less than a day before it starts chipping off, and then I get frustrated with the chipped look and I just peel the rest away during a commute. The reasons I can't keep nail polish on are the same reasons my nails are always short. I'd rather explore and hike with my kid than worry about a perfect manicure.

As I examined my hands on the elliptical (did I mention how long that hour was?) I realized that my body, including my hands, is a testament of my life so far. It is far from perfect, but a lot of those imperfections are reminders of important events. I don't enjoy the fact that the child of mine that I love so very dearly gave me more stretch marks than should be legally allowed on one person, but I wouldn't want to lose that experience either. I'll take the scars and dirty hands in exchange for a life of "doing." I currently spend about 10-12 hours every week in the gymso that I can improve my health and, as a result, my body. I want to look and feel like a million bucks...but I'm okay keeping the less-than-perfect parts of me intact.