As I age, my hands are getting softer.
That’s a real problem because they’ve never been muscular or tough to the touch. So many people over the years, after I’ve attempted to give a firm, cowboy-like handshake, remark, “My, your hands are really soft.”
I don’t take it as a compliment. After all, I’m from Carson City, where men before me helped tame the Wild West. The hands of real men lassoed stallions, put up barbed wire fences and dug for gold and silver with picks and shovels.
My hands feel as if they’ve soaked in Jergens lotion for a week. They have kind of a soft pink glow.
It isn’t that I haven’t tried to build calluses. I pull weeds without my gloves on. I scoop up boulders bigger than basketballs and heave them into my pickup truck. I rub sand back and forth in my bare palms when no one is looking.
I’ll bet you think I’m too sensitive about something that’s not a big deal. You might be right, but let’s not shake on it.