I’m on my fifth or sixth year of smooth hands. I do not remember in my life when my hands were completely smooth. By that I mean when there were no callouses, cuts, bruises, gashes, burns, black fingernails, purple fingernails, unknown and unforeseen bumps, swollen knuckles, immovable thumbs, or hands that won’t respond to a wadded fist.
This is not comforting. It only means that the work and projects I did for so long in my life that required physical labor and energy and using my hands for hard work are just not as common as they once were. The computer is not like swinging a hammer, and cutting and pasting copy is not like reading and cutting rafter angles. Researching on Wikipedia is not like installing shrubs or laying new grass sod or digging and installing French drains or building decks or pouring new sidewalks and such, or fixing all kinds of stuff. Or… trying to hang a dang door.
It is just very different to have Smooth Hands. I don’t care much for it. When my dad got older after a life of hard work he had the same thing happen and he didn’t like it either. I remember well when he talked to me about it.
I’m headed over to other side of the Pond to have some Cuban Coffee and Thumbprint Raspberry Cookies and start to work on a project building a new fence and getting my calluses and hand health back.
“My Father is working until now, and I am working.” Jesus