The skin on my hands is dry and scarred. The worn polish has been removed. Two nails are starting to break below the area where they leave the bed. The "mechanic hands" by someone who had long, ladylike, delicate fingers. Pianist's hands, I believe. Remembering this small cruelty brings a smile to my face, although it caused me some pain all those years ago. "Now," I counsel myself, "it's actually a good sign that THAT was the worst thing she could think of to say about me. I should be happy about that." And I am.
Because since then, these "mechanic hands" have tied shoes and buttoned buttons, they've zipped pants and jackets, crocheted afghans, and knitted hats and scarves. They've blown noses, wiped tears, washed dishes, children, abandoned kittens, and cars.
They've kneaded bread, peeled oranges, apples, potatoes, stickers, and band-aids. They've opened stubborn packaging and packaged stubborn gifts for others to open. And they've also received many gifts themselves.
They've patted backs, scratched itches, applied ointments, and provided comfort. They have written and created. They have greeted new friends and held miracles. Yes, they've even performed an oil change or two.
They've done so much more than I can list here. And they can do more.
So, I look at these hands. And I see nothing wrong.