"Sandpaper Hands" by Erica Beeney
Posted: Sun Nov 26, 2006 12:49 am<p align="justify">Maybe my bias comes from growing up in Colorado. One late spring, my friend Dave took me up into the mountains on a road I was never able to find again. We stood on the riverbank and blew up the patched gray raft together. We climbed on, and the world sped up and closed in - nothing but trout-colored water, white spray, and my heart beating in my mouth. Then we hit the rock. I got dumped over the side and lost a fingernail while fighting to shore. My teeth chattered as I blubbered and sucked my blood. Dave knew just what to do. He struck a match on his palm to start a fire. His hands were as rough as sandpaper, hardened by calluses - the kind of hands that could save you (<B>XXX notes: unlike those of a skilled surgeon, of course. Lumberjacks can deliver babies and do open heart surgery just as easily according to this broad haha![/b]).
A smooth hand is nothing to be proud of ([b]XXX notes: unless you're a world-class pianist or hand model[/b]). Calluses tell a story: a weekend spent repairing fence posts, replacing the oil filter on the Triumph ([b]XXX notes: because we all know how manly a Triumph automobile is...[/b]), tacking across the harbor in a hard wind. Calluses are the proof of doing something that was hard enough to do that it made scars ([b]XXX notes: or being plain ol' stupid to not wear a pair of gloves... which exist for the purpose of protection![/b]). And unlike tans and white teeth, calluses can't be faked ([b]XXX notes: watch me as I dip my hands in sulfuric acid - just like any retard that doesn't wear gloves for hard, physical labour![/b]). A free climb up the face of El Capitan leaves blisters ([b]not if you wear gloves to handle rope, duh![/b]); watching someone else do it on the Discovery channel doesn't ([b]I didn't even know there was a mountain climbing show, but, according to this lazy broad, there is[/b]).
When did we start believing that life wasn't supposed to leave marks? I don't want my man's hands to remind me of my little brother's. I want them to be strong and maybe even a little scary ([b]that sounds more like a deep-seeded issue she has i.e. she's a crazy nutbag[/b]). I want them to be the kind of hands you don't say "no" to ([b]... because saying "yeah" to scary things sounds like an excellent idea[/b]). If your hands make me picture you sweating, I picture sweating with you ([b]or she could try picturing hands handling money - CHA-CHING![/b]). So spit on those palms, rub them together, and get to work. Leave some skin behind on an ax handle ([b]where would one chop wood in the middle of a metropolitan city?[/b]). Make your fingers bleed on that guitar you haven't picked up since college. Then grab a girl. You'll have her at first touch.
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I transcribed this bit article from an [i]Esquire[/i] magazine article, of all things. Reading it made me stomach gurgle a bit and I was ready to take a well-deserved shit[}:)] First off, does anyone [i]really[/i] think anyone who reads the rag [i]Esquire[/i] would also do these heroic things with his hands? Dude's probably too damn busy machine-gunning droves of vietcong, falling off mountain edges down pine trees and getting his arm tore up in the process, and taking down goons holding two uzis while manoeuvering a ragtop Caddy to the tune of "Satisfaction" to give a shit about it.
I dunno about you, but whenever I'm gonna work in the garden or do something physically strenuous, I put on a pair of gloves - sometimes goggles (esp. when dealing with wood chippers, chainsaws, etc). My verdict is that this chick is a deluded cow with no common sense... probably works HR and writes stupid drivel part time[}:)]
A smooth hand is nothing to be proud of ([b]XXX notes: unless you're a world-class pianist or hand model[/b]). Calluses tell a story: a weekend spent repairing fence posts, replacing the oil filter on the Triumph ([b]XXX notes: because we all know how manly a Triumph automobile is...[/b]), tacking across the harbor in a hard wind. Calluses are the proof of doing something that was hard enough to do that it made scars ([b]XXX notes: or being plain ol' stupid to not wear a pair of gloves... which exist for the purpose of protection![/b]). And unlike tans and white teeth, calluses can't be faked ([b]XXX notes: watch me as I dip my hands in sulfuric acid - just like any retard that doesn't wear gloves for hard, physical labour![/b]). A free climb up the face of El Capitan leaves blisters ([b]not if you wear gloves to handle rope, duh![/b]); watching someone else do it on the Discovery channel doesn't ([b]I didn't even know there was a mountain climbing show, but, according to this lazy broad, there is[/b]).
When did we start believing that life wasn't supposed to leave marks? I don't want my man's hands to remind me of my little brother's. I want them to be strong and maybe even a little scary ([b]that sounds more like a deep-seeded issue she has i.e. she's a crazy nutbag[/b]). I want them to be the kind of hands you don't say "no" to ([b]... because saying "yeah" to scary things sounds like an excellent idea[/b]). If your hands make me picture you sweating, I picture sweating with you ([b]or she could try picturing hands handling money - CHA-CHING![/b]). So spit on those palms, rub them together, and get to work. Leave some skin behind on an ax handle ([b]where would one chop wood in the middle of a metropolitan city?[/b]). Make your fingers bleed on that guitar you haven't picked up since college. Then grab a girl. You'll have her at first touch.
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I transcribed this bit article from an [i]Esquire[/i] magazine article, of all things. Reading it made me stomach gurgle a bit and I was ready to take a well-deserved shit[}:)] First off, does anyone [i]really[/i] think anyone who reads the rag [i]Esquire[/i] would also do these heroic things with his hands? Dude's probably too damn busy machine-gunning droves of vietcong, falling off mountain edges down pine trees and getting his arm tore up in the process, and taking down goons holding two uzis while manoeuvering a ragtop Caddy to the tune of "Satisfaction" to give a shit about it.
I dunno about you, but whenever I'm gonna work in the garden or do something physically strenuous, I put on a pair of gloves - sometimes goggles (esp. when dealing with wood chippers, chainsaws, etc). My verdict is that this chick is a deluded cow with no common sense... probably works HR and writes stupid drivel part time[}:)]