They say you should go into a job interview with a firm, confident handshake. Paralysis has made my handshake floppy and weak, but it remains confident. I always reach for the handshake, even when the recipient is skeptical and awkward at touching my hands. I deserve the dignity of touch.
So, I drop stuff all the time and I look funny when I eat.
When I wave to children, it looks like I’m waving a fist and they wave back with a fist, too.
Everything that is childproof is impossible to open and therefore quad-proof.
Opening a bag of potato chips requires a combination of mouth/hands/chest tag-team skills.
In the morning, the palms of my hands have a stinky, sweaty smell from being closed all night.
I’ve learned to be accurate at knuckle texting.
The lady who does my manicure always messes up at least once because my fingers will spasm.
Most of the zippers on my jackets and bags have rings so I can loop in with my thumb and open them.
I love speaker phone.
I’m totally predictable when playing Rock, Paper, Scissors.
My hands have personified touch. They are utilitarian. They act sassy. They express tenderness. They exude confidence. They elicit sensuality.
Honestly, they don’t move gracefully nor will they ever be models. They may not be up for every task, but together their problem-solving is impressive. When they choose to participate in my conversations, I notice the person I’m talking to gaze from my eyes to my hands. For a moment I’m embarrassed, but I dismiss it because I am excited about what I am saying. I refuse to feel shame.
And sometimes, my hands just don’t cut it. They let me down. So someone else’s hands are my hands. And that’s OK, too.