My hands are in bad shape.
Somewhere between the end of a big tile job last winter and the beginning of the assault on quack grass this month, I let my mitts fall to ruin.
The tile saw and stone sealer were shelved, the nail files and polish returned to service. As the wounds of marble flooring and miles of subway tile healed, my hands became porcelain pale and smooth and puny.
Round 1 in the lettuce garden confirmed the lack of phalangeal fitness. A few hours ripping out grass and thistle, last-year’s kale, chard and onions, and my hands felt like they’d been in a marathon of manual labor.
Never mind the raspberry thorn jabbed beneath a nail, it took two days for the slow aches to fade from my palms and knuckles.
The target last weekend was a long-neglected perennial bed, where roses required whacking and tansy needed termination. Once the grass was sifted from the mounds of phlox and obedient plant, my paws were so painful I stopped the apres-garden scrub a bit too soon.
Later, at a bar, I felt a little shamed by the loamy soil still darkening my index finger, but let it go when I realized the pain had already eased and remembered the filth just means I am a happy member of the fraternal order of people with dirty hands.
— Dana Coffield, The Denver Post
