Wounded Pride

My hands are covered in about a dozen wounds of varying severity-- and I couldn't be more proud.

I have always harbored a deep respect for those who work with their hands in any capacity. It is a Romantic, civilized activity that, being a history major (or perhaps just lacking visual creativity), I have not had the opportunity to indulge. Until now-- sort of. As a bartender, I am making "art" in a form-- temporary art, to be sure. And hopefully delicious art. And if I am lucky, art that is enjoyed more than once. But art nonetheless. A peripheral benefit of my craft is that I can show physical evidence of it, i.e. cuts and scrapes. They are pretty bad ass. It's a new and exciting change for me. Try proving to somebody you're a painter (or a historian for that matter). "Oh hey, check out my stain!" What does that prove? Nothing. Nice try klutz. Come talk to me when you swallow some turpentine. That would be bad ass.

In the past, I can relate with complete honesty that people have commented on my soft and handsome hands. Though the observation was meant as a compliment, I took it as "Wow, your hands reveal that you are quite the pussy. Ever lift a heavy cardboard box, Goldilocks?" It struck me deep. But not anymore. Now, I look like I manwrestled a lawnmower-- and lost. What could be better than that.