What stories do your hands tell?
--My hands are like my father's, big palms with long, slender fingers, like a woman's hands, as my mother and other women have said. Perfect for playing the piano, sighs my mother, still wishing that I hadn't quit after three years in middle school. Auntie Lydia says that the length of the fingers and the lack of big protruding knuckles make them women's hands. Uh. Ok.
--My mother calls them, directly translated from Korean, as "spicy hands," because when I playfully hit her on the arm, she says the slaps sting. I laugh, thinking of hands with hot sauce on them. Hand strength is important for volleyball and basketball. A good setter needs strong hands and wrists, although I never set very much. A lot of the power I generated for hitting a volleyball is from my wrist snap and the rigidity of my hands when I make contact. Since my hands don't give in to the contact of the ball, I can deliver more of the force from my arm motion and hip torque to the ball. Which doesn't mean I hit it so hard, compared to others; it's just what happens with me.
--They're really twitchy. I have a lot of nervous energy that comes out of my hands. They're always playing with something: silverware, napkins, cell phone, twirling pens, keys, someone else's ears, etc.
--I tear at the dead skin around the edges of my nails. Some weird kind of compulsion which I started when I was little and noticed that my pruny fingers had white things on them, and I picked at them til they went away. The skin on my fingertips got so sensitive that during one of my first sports camps, the rubber of the outdoor basketballs ripped away the skin, so I had 8 little cuts on all of my fingers, excepting the thumbs. I kept picking at them, of course, enjoying the pain a little.
--I had scabs from tennis, on the base segment of my fingers, from gripping the racket. I get contact blisters from baseball bats in the thick fleshy part of palm closest to the wrist, because my hands overlap the knob. I have to switch-hit so I can sort of evenly distribute the blisters onto both hands, so I can go longer before I have to stop.
--I crack my knuckles a lot. Nervous energy again. I was really happy to hear that cracking them isn't bad for you.
--I used to punch walls when I did poorly on a test. This only really happened in college, when it started happening so often. I dunno. I wasn't really angry at the wall, obviously, just mad with myself, and so I punished myself by scratching up my knuckles. Sort of melodramatic, but I wasn't the most mature kid when I was 19, either.
--I've never punched anybody, except for in the arm, never in earnest in a fight. Although I've wanted to.
--I remember during the exchange of the sign of peace during Mass, I would crush Ed's hands in a handshake. I don't do that anymore.
--I want to be able to use my left hand better. I'm righthanded, but I like trying to be ambidextrous. Maybe tied into my desire to be well-rounded. I've tried to use my left hand in basketball, especially on layups and such, and to use it to block shots, not always relying on my dominant hand. Ambidexterity can translate to defense as well as on offense. I hit switch for baseball, I've tried throwing baseballs, footballs, and Frisbees with my off hand. It's not always pretty, but it's an interesting enough experiment to try.
