There is a Jewel song that goes, "My hands are small, I know..." But not mine. My hands are large, utilitarian and are meant for hard work. I have a firm grasp, maybe firmer than some men I know, or maybe they give a lighter grasp because I am a woman. Whatever, my hands are meant for hard work. They are a bit alligatory, and no amount of hand lotion seems to make them smoother. The knuckles are knobby and covered with thin, skin that has lost a lot of its elasticity. I chuck wood, rake copious amounts of leaves, in season and have torn apart a kitchen island. I can heave 50 pound bags with the greatest of ease (well, I can heft them, anyway). I have diapered 5 of my own babies, cleared brush, shoveled snow and roofs. I keep my nails short because I type all day. I don't understand how anyone can type with those false french manicured nails, I can't. My hands are freckled and veined, the signs of old age, but they still are able to work hard. In fact instead of reminding me of the Jewel song, my hands remind me more of the Seinfeld "Man-hands" episode. You know, the episode where Jerry couldn't quite embrace his new girlfriend because of the size of her hands. Well, fortunate for me, my husband is not repulsed by the size of my hands and is probably grateful for the hard work they can do.