Hands

I finally watched Tadpole, on the recommendation of my best friend Steph. And I think I'm in love. See, I have an obsession with hands. I have ended relationships for no better reason than that I didn't like the guy's hands. Hands are very important. Hands define maturity, life experiences, psychological wellbeing, etc. And Tadpole, well, he loves hands.

My hands tell their own story. Pudgyish fingers tell me that I haven't done much physical work in my life. The muscularity of my hands shows that I'm not a completely useless human being, and that I've used my hands for something - I've played piano since I was 4.

How do I define an unacceptable hand? Hard to determine. Usually, it's a gut feeling. The biggest problem - small hands - and before you say anything, no it has NOTHING to do with THAT, and although, yes, I'm afraid of carnies, that's also not the reason either. Hands define a person. Looking at someone's hand may be the biggest first impression I get, both for men and for women.

Reading hands, for me, is like reading palms for those fake fortune-tellers, but more truthful and accurate. Hands alone are not enough, however. Brains are also required. The perfect man will have hands like my old piano professor, Mr. Laszlo, and the brains of my favorite prof from college, and will somehow be close to my age. Until then, I'll keep looking.