In my excitement, I whipped out my iPhone for a photo opportunity the moment I got into my car after leaving the salon. I placed one hand on the steering wheel of my Volkswagen and used the other hand to take the photo. Then I looked at the picture on my phone screen in horror.
On the screen, in high definition and vibrant color, was one giant beefy paw with cheerfully bright nail polish. It was my giant beefy paw. And I didn’t like it one bit.
How could I have believed that a coat of polish would make my large, chubby hands appear less manly? My palms looked so wide. My fingers were thick. And the lines — so many lines everywhere. There were creases on the backs of my hands, creases on my knuckles, creases on my palms. What was happening to me?
In my mind, I remembered hands — other people’s hands — as being perfectly smooth, lineless, flawless, artistic arrangements of elegant fingers and slender palms. My hands were the exact opposite of the hands in my mind’s eye. They weren’t hands; they were anti-hands.
