Little Hands

I am conceited when it comes to my perfect little hands. I will gaze at them for too many minutes as I scrunch four fingers to the top of my palm, revealing their shortness and sophistication compared to an ape. How shiny my fingernails are, and how many galaxies would I destroy if I were to nibble on the crescent moon at the manicured tips. How long can I impress myself over the evolution of my stubby, flat, human tool grasper, before I have to fold it into a fist. My clenched fist seems intimidating, so I choose to continue admiring the palm side where there are deep lines that to me have meaning. Deep lines that are carved from opening and closing the hand, a million times more than any door my hand has ever shut. I’ve hurt my hands before as they have done plenty of hard work but they get more abuse at night while I sleep. They become numb as I lay there like a teapot or with both hands pressed against me like chicken wings. So my perfect little hands feel fat right then but I suppose my fingers only look fat like sausages to my girls until they grow up and have kids of their own and sausage fingers too. These hands keep me young because they look young to me. They keep me entertained but not because they look entertaining, though I might as well pretend to be watching tv on my thumbnail as much as I think on my hands versus watching television. I won’t be needing a remote control but only self control so I don’t go around telling everybody how much I am in love. I’m grateful that I have a television wherever I go. How vain it would be for me to swap out my television for a mirror so I can admire myself again. I can’t say I’d never leave the house but I do have two thumbs right here. I don’t really need two mirrors or two televisions so I’ll pretend to have one of each. I really should mention that not everyone has such perfect little hands that make them so conceited as me. I’m not opposed to sitting here for several minutes more to bite my fingernails.