I was teasing my partner last night about my hands. I emerged from the bathroom, holding them high, as if I was a surgeon, prepped and sterile. Then I began to loudly decry his forcing me to do manual labor. My Hands!!! My beautiful hands!!!
This is all his fault, you see. I own a tiller, yet he insists that we garden with tools, antiquated, savage hand tools. And it has been too wet to till, but, still…
I feigned angst and overdramatized my sorrow. The tools of my trade!!! My creative outlet!!! *fake crying* Oh ho ho…my poor hands. LOOK AT THEM!!! (This is where I turn upon him) How am I to earn a living?! Don’t you know these are my bread and butter!? I cannot type without my hands!
My beauty!! It is ruined. I am compromised. No one will ever love me again because of THESE!!! *shaking them at his face*
It was all to get him to inspect one angry red spot on my palm. Because it is marred from all of the lawn crew work we did (and thankfully no longer have to do) and all of the shoveling for the garden. For reasons only mysterious nature herself can explain, my shovel callous/blisters are in the same place as my weedeater wounds, except offset by two millimeters- just enough to cause new trouble.
And I like to act silly. He ignores 99% of it. Which only makes me do it more.