Jealous of other hands, the hands that touch fabric and people and sand and run over fruits and are comfortable with their own sensuality. My hands are admittedly deprived of these kinds of experiences. They touch people, sure, but are they living the kind of life they should be? Probably not. I put them to work with little reward. I buy uncomfortable gloves based on my eyes orders. I wash them a little too often to really be okay with- I wash off dirt, mud, and dust, but also less offensive sensual experiences, like cake or cookie batter, or fine sand. I wash them after peeling oranges. I wash them after petting any animal that isn't my cat.
I bite my fingernails. They aren't in good shape. If there is any anxiety in my body, it comes through in my feet, constantly moving, and my nails, constantly bitten to the crick, the surrounding tissue picked at, the whole fingertip a wasteland.
I like to touch fish, but it's bad for fish to be touched.
My cats are the one purely sensualist luxury I allow my hands. I have two cats, one with thick, rich fur that surrounds my fingers and crackles with static electricity (my cat seems to enjoy it, too) and another cat with fine, silky fur. Both of them randomly recieve ten to twenty minute long rub downs without objections.
I have longed to find something I can create with my hands. A physical, tangible thing. I can type art, I make music and art and writing through a single keyboard, but I don't give myself time to knit properly, or learn origami, or fingerpainting. My hands are typing now, the least demanding part of my external body of any importance. I want to tell my hands I'm sorry, but I don't have a cat or darning needle handy. Sorry, hands.
