Hands.

From a young age, I recognized I had my mother’s hands. I don’t know why, but I was fascinated by this. I look more like my dad than my mom. But my hands – my hands are my mother’s. Whose personality I emulate more is still up for debate and it depends on who you ask. For a while, probably until age 35, I didn’t think I was like either of them.

After a couple of years of therapy and a lot of self discovery, it dawned on me I am more like my father. Some good, some not so good. I wasn’t lucky enough to inherit his ridiculous green thumb.

My thumb and the rest of my fingers are my mother’s. I’ve always liked my hands. Like most women, I’ve had various battles with the rest of my body parts, but I’ve always liked my hands. When I do see my mom, I always sneak a look at her hands and I smile to myself knowing she’s always going to be with me.  I have always found great comfort in that, especially as I have grown older and beared witness to friends losing parents.

While I have inherited by mother’s hands, her nails are always neatly manicured. Alternatively, my hands resemble an eight year old tomboy’s. I always marvel at women with perfectly manicured nails. “Man, that lady has it together,” I think to myself and sigh with resignation as I stare down at my uneven, unmanicured nails wondering if those women simultaneously are thinking “man, this chick needs to get it together.” 

But, I still love my hands. They provide my ability to have a firm handshake (prior to COVID), write, lift weights, wave to people, and a million other things regardless of their appearance.

My freshman year in college, I rowed on the women’s crew team. Rowing combined with, what would become a lifelong love of lifting weights, left my hands rough, calloused and not very “lady-like”. I loved it. To this day, I still don’t know why. Evidence of hard work, I suppose? You can’t short cut to callouses. You earn those.

For three months this year when gyms were closed, the callouses I had for over 20 years faded and eventually went away. I almost cried. They are back now, but I remember sitting with that feeling then and exploring why it bothered me so much. I don’t think it was so much that the evidence of work put in was gone, but rather it was like friends that I carried with me for the last twenty years had left me.

(It’s a lot less gross in my mind than just “this girl is sad because her dead skin is gone?”, although I get why some would see it that way, which makes me laugh at the same time).

Ironically, after training for a body building competition, I grew a greater appreciation of what my body is capable of from a functional standpoint – not just an appearance standpoint. Just sit for a moment and think about how amazing the human body is. How much it does every second of every day automatically without you having to think about it.

As the years go by, unfortunately,  I have seen loved ones getting sick and their bodies shutting down. I have grown a much deeper appreciation for my health and the size of my thighs does not seem to be as top of a priority anymore. Don’t get me wrong, having to do squats and lunges to get my jeans on some days is not exactly the highlight of my day – but it doesn’t ruin my day like it used to. I focus on the fact that it’s those thighs that are going to walk me out of the house and onto the rest of the day.

The first thing I do in the morning (after I pour my coffee) is write my goals in a journal and the first phrase is always “self love”. It serves as a friendly reminder of something I need to practice on a daily basis. I am sure I am not alone on that one. As the years tick by, I have come to appreciate quirks about my body that I used to loathe. As a young girl, I always was self conscious about the hair on my arms or how obscenely large my big toe is in comparison to the rest of the toes and a million other things I wanted to hide about my body. Now, I barely notice these things. To say the last two years has been a journey of self love is an understatement. Rather than looking at myself in the mirror with a “ugh”, I focused on what I liked.

 The first thing was my hands.