Man hands
February 26, 2010
I’m working on copy editing and laying out the Story Week Reader 2010 (the past five editions are available online at the Publishing Lab’s Web site) this week, something I’ve been doing for two years now with my wife, Ann, who designs the cover. This year’s, I think, is particularly strong. It’s got the tiny keyboard and the large keyboard, the process from writing small—the magazine’s maximum word count is 750—to writing long.
Those aren’t my hands. Nor my wife’s. The faculty advisor told me my hands looked too old and wizened. “We need something younger,” he said. “Maybe tattoos. Definitely female.”
And I take that as a complement. I’ve got scars on my hands from years of cats and hot oils popping from skillets and general clumsiness. I’ve got a wedding ring. Could I use some lotion? Probably, but man’s men don’t moisturize. That my hands wouldn’t work for this design is a sign of growing up, not old. Do my knees ache after I go to the gym? Sure. Can I pull all-nighters and still be alert the next day? Certainly not as well as I could when I was an undergrad, or hell, even a grad student.
It was a gentle validation that I’m an adult. And I like that. It means I’ve got perspective. It means I’ve survived things that made me stronger (especially this past summer). It means I can make wise choices, and if my choices turn out to be not-so-wise, that I’m adaptable enough to duck and weave and come out on the other side with my own momentum.
And I like that.
