These hands

I’ve got hot hands. Yup, you read right: hot.

Before you go on off tangent and start imagining how this part of a person’s anatomy (this blogger’s especially) could be “sexy”, I meant in terms of temperature. Yeah, yeah, what a letdown huh?

Back to my hands now.

They’re always warm. Even when it’s freezing outside, my hands will be the warmest one’s around for miles unless of course Dad’s in the vicinity. It's genetic, you see.

Mom has an aversion to them though. Whenever I touch her, she’ll give a start and yelp “Your hands are just like your father’s!”

I still haven’t been able to decide if this is a compliment or an accusation.

But yours truly always has the last laugh, I'll huff, “Yah what, I’m warm-blooded unlike you reptiles!”

Needless to say I give a mean heated massage, assuming of course I be a good girl and refrain from attempting to break me some bones. Trust me, cries of pain only spurn me on.

And they’re disproportionately big and fleshy too (my hands, my hands, focus people!), what with being perched on spindly, bony wrists and all. My, don’t I just sound like your regular freak show?

One of my fondest memories is of Dad tenderly examining my hands, smoothing them over and announcing with gusto, “You should have been a boy!”.

I don’t know why I should remember this fondly cos if anything, it should have plunged moi into conflicting feelings over sexual orientation vs. parental devotion. Heh.
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Ahem, I trust I have contributed to your daily dosage of riveting reads.

You may go now. Scoot!