Hands

I wouldn’t call myself a butt woman (although I did admit that I liked looking at my crush in school’s butt one time).

(And no, I don’t mean that I have a bootylicious butt.)

I mean this in the context of guys either liking a woman for her butt or her boobs.

For example, my cousin Chris goes for faces (i.e. if the girl has a very pretty face, everything else just follows.)

Me? Hmm…I go for beautiful eyes and a great sense of humor.

Oh, and I especially like it if they are tall and have nice hands…

The preference for tall men is understandable, but tall men with nice hands…is really something else for me. It’s nothing sexual, and it’s not even a fetish, but I always was fascinated with people who were talented and always knew what they were doing, or were going to do. I was always drawn to guys who could get very intent on their work and produce results.

Hence, my fascination for nice hands… Especially when they’re at work, they are quite a sight to watch.

My crush in high school was a math wiz. One time, when I passed by the classroom where they did their practice for another nationals tilt, I saw him trying to work out a problem. On the board was a multi-chambered nautilus, cut into different levels and although I can recall what the math problem was, I do remember that the other two members of the team were working furiously with their paper and pencils, but A. (my wiz of a crush-object) was just standing there, a few feet away from the board, looking.

Less than a minute later, he goes, “Ok, I’ve got it.” and then proceeds to write out the complicated-looking solution for that math problem the others still hadn’t solved. It wasn’t really the answer that impressed me. I was more engrossed with the thinking process. While he was thinking it over, I saw that his eyebrows were knitted as he stared intently, and his chin was set. He would alternately run his hand through his brown hair (oh, and did he have nice hair…LOL), and twist his right hand at the wrist, and I could hear the crackling sound as the joint slid past the cartilage. With the chalk in his hand, he then wrote down the solution and then explained why that was so.

(I could only smile, being the spectator that I was. Bravo, I thought to myself, as I squealed silently, grinning like a schoolgirl. which I was, back then.)

Last night, on my last day as a Neurology service rotator, I ended up with a toxic (i.e. a patient in a critical condition) patient at the ER. He was getting prepped to undergo a CT scan procedure at the facility across the street, and as such, I had to conduct him there. I spent a considerable amount of time at the ER then, mostly waiting and monitoring.

So it was actually a nice surprise to walk into a venous cut-down procedure with a surgery resident doing the thing. They’re usually called in when the Peds people run out of venous access for their lines. On my way to the observation unit where my patient was, I stopped over and looked. and looked.

 

Yes, he was a tall, fair, surgery resident with almond eyes and close-cropped hair (which I like), but most importantly, I couldn’t help but be engrossed in what he was doing. He had big hands, with long fingers but he was able to successfully maneuver and work his way around that baby’s subclavian structures… I mean, the patient was tiny, but he was able to get the cut-down going in less than 15 minutes. He looked up and saw me staring, and I ignored him, tempted to say, “please go on, you’re doing great work with your hands” One of the nurses chuckled when she saw that beads of sweat had formed on his brow and mopped it up, saying that the patient was really giving him a hard time.

(What a man. Instant crush. lol)

Ahh…I love hands. But you see, my fascination with hands is more of a fascination with what they can do, and what they are used for. Aesthetics is a big factor, yes, but I’m more drawn into what these special people can do with them, and how they can help other people, or make them happy.

I knew this guy before who had nice hands. He loved to cook and was always volunteering to make this and that meal. I could watch for hours, it seemed, and I couldn’t resist watching him while he worked. He’d slice up the garlic and the onions and put them in neat little piles (and they’d always be proportioned), and even how he’d hold the knife and cut out the onion bulb’s root parts was always fun to watch. Even watching his fingers while he sprinkled the peppercorns onto the meat was very entertaining.

Up close, his hands were nice. No veins, no gashes, no scars… the fingers were long and tapered, and the fingernails were short and clean, and well-formed, and there was no bump from where the pen would rest in writing… and the palm was not soft, but not rough either, with whorls and creases in all the right places in the finger pads.

I had often wondered what it would be like to hold his hand up close so I could press my cheek onto the back of his hand, to trace the lines and creases of his palms, and to finally lace my fingers through his beautiful ones…

So yes, I dream of his hands…

And hands that work and love what they’re doing.

Love,

S.