Hands and Dying Dreams

My future as a hand model is officially never going to happen. The best manicurist couldn’t fix the rough welts, jagged nails, jammed fingers, and tiny scars that make my hands look about ten years older and more masculine than the rest of me. To add to all of this, my propensity for accidents would never be conducive to a hand model. Can you imagine a picture of hands for some jewelry company sporting a bracelet of a couple rings with a pen callous on one finger and a scar at the knuckles from some altercation with a hot thing.
In fact my hands are really never safe, so I don’t know why I forgot that when handed an iron mallet and stack of rebar. I was fine for about six rows, carefully hammering the stakes into the ground and fitting the hoops to cover the lettuce crop, but my left hand became tired, so I risked the switch. Unfortunately I am only coordinated with one hand and instead of hitting the rebar I caught my hand, bleeding through my gloves. Oh well…
– W


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