July 16, 2012

Scars = Stories

I want to take a photograph of my hands, now at 35 and perhaps again in 30 years or so.  I probably won't do it, but it's a neat thought. 

I'm sort of obsessed with hands, men's, women's, little children; I used to chew on my daughters fingers when she was an infant.  I thought her little hands were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.  I did it for years till she drew back one day and I knew it was time to stop nibbling on my little ones fingertips.  There's line in one of my favourite books referencing the character's mother's hands....she described the red nail polish just applied the day before and how they always smelled of Jergen's lotion.  It often makes me think on my own mother's hands, they have always looked very.....capable, and always smell clean.  Always clean, because my mother, child of the 50's, is always cleaning. 

Sometimes I think I see some of that same capability in my own.  Whether real or added, my nails are always as long as I can grow them and still work with them, and I have a permanent dent on the ring finger of my left hand.  A friend told me not long ago that in the 17 years we've known one another, he'd never known me not to have some sort of commitment ring on that finger.  I suppose he's right.  I often feel bad when they begin to ache or won't cooperate with me.  I have tendinitis you see, left over from days and days of typing on typewriters, computers, and using them past their potential.  There are evenings I can't support a small pot of water or a skillet with one hand without the wrist breaking over.  Other days, I can snatch up cast iron pieces of engines that need to be rescued from their rusty hideaways with one quick flick. 

I was sitting the other night just looking at them, the stains on the inside, the scars that are scattered from wrist to fingertip.  What got me on this tangent is something I'd said a day or so before that moment...something about me and all my scars.  I didn't realize I had so many till I was nursing a fresh burn from scalding water, the thought popped in my head, that's going to scar too.....I have them, in abundance, inner and outer I've discovered. 

Now this isn't a blog about my physical body parts and it's decorations.  I'm not so much taking account of how I'm aging, I sort of watching myself through a pane of glass.  I often think on me from the third person point of view.  I step back and try to look at myself both physically and otherwise from an outside perspective.  I often wonder how folks perceive me.  Sometimes I will even ask various friends and relatives.  I like to know how I come across to those around me.  Who sees the flaws, the cracks, the bits that need work....sometimes I even get feedback. 

I have several hangups in regard to myself and how I'm perceived.  I am a bit nuts from time to time and have several personal ideologies that don't fit into the norm, but I worry about not being liked.  Moreover I worry that folks won't like me because of something that perhaps I convey, may not necessarily be what I think or feel, but it's what I project. 

There are several oxymoron's that I throw off; I most often am in men's clothes due to work and whatnot, however, I am quite effeminate.  I dearly love flowers and soft, cushy things, yet I also have an appreciation for internal combustion.  My friends have often referred to me as Rosie the Riveter.  There is even a gas station clerk who sees me as such.  I appreciate the reference and take it (mostly) as a compliment, thus my facebook avatar.  Those unfeminine days can take their toll.  Bad days aside, I think I rather like the woman I have become and I'm anxious to see the woman yet to come.  I have a lot of changing yet to do and a lot more scars to collect. 

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