A lot of people hate certain parts of their body. Largely because of the impossible societal beauty standards of our culture, presented everywhere- from advertisements and television, to social media. Thanks society. However, being the tall, thin, white guy that I am, I find representation and body positivity everywhere I go- which I know is a "weird flex but ok". Nonetheless, I don't love everything about me, even if it seems like it from the way I talk about myself. Haha. It's mostly overcompensation for just a tiny bit of insecurity, anyway.
One part of myself which has betrayed me far too many times are my hands. Which sounds crazy, I know. It's like I can't even control them. Like when for some random reason, they circle the wrong answer on a Physics quiz, or get too clammy when I'm holding a girl's hand. And for another thing, my hands (and feet) are too big for my body, as my skinny frame doesn't quite match my size 13 feet and similarly sizable fists. My mom always says, "you'll grow into those paws," but it hasn't happened yet. But, you know what they say about men with big feet, so it's not all bad. ;)
The first time my hands ever did me dirty was in third grade, when for some reason the class was talking about the middle finger. I didn't know what "flipping the bird" meant, so I decided to actually try extending only my middle finger. One of the "bad kids" yelled "OH SH*T! HE'S DOING THE FINGER!" Everyone started staring at me, which made me think that I must be some freak of nature. I assumed that I obviously must be pulling off a phenomenon only the most evolutionary advanced could pull off, so I put up the finger with both hands and grinned. The class went wild, until the teacher explained to me what it actually was, and I went from proud to sheepish real fast. Thanks hands, I thought you were special. But at least I got clout with the bad kids and I didn't even get in trouble.
Another hand incident came during the summer before my subbie year. I was playing basketball in my driveway with my brother Paul, my then-best friend Sam Ross, and my dad. At one point, the ball caromed off the ground and shot back up, crushing my pinkie finger. Now, if any of you have ever attended a basketball game, you'll know my dad takes basketball very seriously; whether he is slamming his fists on the score table in frustration, or yelling "what the f*** are you doing, coach" whenever me or Paul got subbed out. So, naturally my dad didn't let me go inside to ice it. No one except me believed the ball could have been enough to actually break a bone, yet my brittle finger was turning a repugnant eggplant shade. After Sam and I lost a few more games, he went home and me and my mother went to Convenient Care to get it checked out. Meanwhile, my brother told everyone at the soccer camp we were attending that I hadn't come that day because "he thinks he broke his finger," with a lot of doubt carried within the "thinks". But I was proved right the next day, when we received a call about the fractures found in my x-ray.
My hands haven't always been dependable. Yet I still love them, because they're part of my body and they deserve love. And whatever mistakes they've made, as my mom always says: it's either a good time or a good story.
At least I can palm basketballs easily.
-HD
One part of myself which has betrayed me far too many times are my hands. Which sounds crazy, I know. It's like I can't even control them. Like when for some random reason, they circle the wrong answer on a Physics quiz, or get too clammy when I'm holding a girl's hand. And for another thing, my hands (and feet) are too big for my body, as my skinny frame doesn't quite match my size 13 feet and similarly sizable fists. My mom always says, "you'll grow into those paws," but it hasn't happened yet. But, you know what they say about men with big feet, so it's not all bad. ;)
The first time my hands ever did me dirty was in third grade, when for some reason the class was talking about the middle finger. I didn't know what "flipping the bird" meant, so I decided to actually try extending only my middle finger. One of the "bad kids" yelled "OH SH*T! HE'S DOING THE FINGER!" Everyone started staring at me, which made me think that I must be some freak of nature. I assumed that I obviously must be pulling off a phenomenon only the most evolutionary advanced could pull off, so I put up the finger with both hands and grinned. The class went wild, until the teacher explained to me what it actually was, and I went from proud to sheepish real fast. Thanks hands, I thought you were special. But at least I got clout with the bad kids and I didn't even get in trouble.
Another hand incident came during the summer before my subbie year. I was playing basketball in my driveway with my brother Paul, my then-best friend Sam Ross, and my dad. At one point, the ball caromed off the ground and shot back up, crushing my pinkie finger. Now, if any of you have ever attended a basketball game, you'll know my dad takes basketball very seriously; whether he is slamming his fists on the score table in frustration, or yelling "what the f*** are you doing, coach" whenever me or Paul got subbed out. So, naturally my dad didn't let me go inside to ice it. No one except me believed the ball could have been enough to actually break a bone, yet my brittle finger was turning a repugnant eggplant shade. After Sam and I lost a few more games, he went home and me and my mother went to Convenient Care to get it checked out. Meanwhile, my brother told everyone at the soccer camp we were attending that I hadn't come that day because "he thinks he broke his finger," with a lot of doubt carried within the "thinks". But I was proved right the next day, when we received a call about the fractures found in my x-ray.
My hands haven't always been dependable. Yet I still love them, because they're part of my body and they deserve love. And whatever mistakes they've made, as my mom always says: it's either a good time or a good story.
At least I can palm basketballs easily.
-HD
Another great post Henry, I love listening to/reading your stories. But, as someone who has the opposite problem, who has tiny hands relative to body size, I'm super jealous. If only I could play more crazy guitar chords, hit a larger interval on the piano, could palm a basketball... :(
ReplyDeleteThis post uncovered one of my favorite memories. The first time I went skating, I fell, hitting my chin. At the time, I was “overly dramatic,” so, instead of getting ice, my mom told me if I wanted to be great, I’d need to learn to fall. Needless to say, I had a bruise for the next week but continued skating. I think we’ve all been done dirty by our bodies so don’t fret your hands. Honestly, it seems like the positives outweigh the negatives. Great post, Henry.
ReplyDeleteI laughed so much while reading about how proud you were while "flipping the bird" in third grade. I did a lot of stupid things when I was younger without knowing it. Based on your stories, I think your mom is totally right about all the mistakes your hand has made either being a good story or a good time :)
ReplyDeleteYoooo, I also had a similar moment with "flipping the bird." I had a cut on my middle finger in elementary school, and I showed my friends by extending that finger. All of them freaked out while I stood there confused. Also, the pain of the ball jamming your finger is something pretty much all basketball players understand. It is a truly painful experience.
ReplyDeleteYour "flipping the bird" moment is very memorable, and I feel as kids we all did stupid stuff like it. When I was in 1st or 2nd grade, my vocabulary was very limited, as a result I tended to repeat any new word I learned, which included curse words. I would sometimes just walk around and say curse words at random people or things as I got used to the way they sounded.
ReplyDelete