My ring finger on my left hand bears no ring. It never has. They say rings signify insecurity.
A small piece of knowledge I picked up from my best friend's dad. He was a psychologist and the smartest person I know. I believe everything he says - even though he can fill a story with more bullshit than truth. You know when he does that, though, because he'll bellow out a laugh after - look down and rub his bald head, belly bouncing from laughter. His nearly toothless smile propagates mine. We'd all collectively laugh - or add to the sarcasm we are usually drowning in - launching off each other's energy and wit. He is the guy who calls me kiddo with affection. He's the one who offered the advice about my breakup.
"When the foundation is broke, it can never be replaced." That was after I left my boyfriend the first time.
I thought I could defy him - like I can all the people who look at my hand. My lonely, empty hand - bare.
Maybe forever.
People can't believe I've made it this far without getting married once. How could I have survived the wolves all these years. Little do they know I am one. I suppose there are more unbelievable things.
Like a broken foundation.
I refused to listen to this advice. "I'll show him. I'll show him I'm not like the mould. I'm different."
In the end, or what is at least an final intermission, my friend's dad was right. The foundation of our relationship wasn't built without cracks, though it wasn't damaged without repair. And after five years of wet concrete and caulking the cracks, maintenance of rusted pipes and even the purchase of a new home - the foundation remained compromised beyond anything we could fix together. The structure was there and the interior and the exterior - while often messy, cluttered and unkept - was operable, tolerable. I guess just not solid.
And now, three years later, my home is still at times messy, cluttered and unkempt, my own foundation appears to be settling. Maybe I am breaking the mould. The foundation is jiving together without luxury travel plans and a large bank account, even with pools of tears soaking into it. My foundation is getting stronger - and not only to support the structure of my self - but grounding too. Deeper and stronger. Organic. With personality and color.
"Why would you color concrete to support your house?" they'd ask me. "What's the point if it is covered in dirt and houses the musty smells and damp leftovers of yesterday's experiences? Where dreams go to age like a fine bottle of wine - becoming better over time?"
My hand is bare and my fingers are short, just like my grandmother's hand. But her finger always had a ring on it. That was what you did back then, especially if you were 14 and pregnant. Her nails were always painted and when they chipped, even if it was two hours later, they would be redone for dinner.
Dinner tastes better when women with finely manicured nails serve it.
I used to never paint my nails, because I had the unfortunate curse of biting them.
"Boys won't like you if you keep biting your nails," my dad told me growing up. It was a threat that if my ugly behavior wasn't corrected, there would be consequences. It was saying my habit made me less desirable, a trait we didn't want. I tried to quit, but if I was stressed, or bored, or if they weren't exactly symmetrical from one side to the other, they wound up in my mouth. I'd only notice when they started to bleed.
I've told lovers this over the years - especially after I learned the advice from my dad initiated sympathy. Which I could then use as a tactic to get what I wanted. Which was essentially for them to tell me they loved me despite this ugly part of me. This was in some way a signal of their unfettering fixation on me - a most worthy muse.
Clearly this strategy as failed me. It's clear by my bare hand. Not only just the place where a westernized version of love is to be displayed, but by the bare hands - ten bare fingers - signalling freedom - a carefree spirit - no obligations or personal risk. No one at home. Security.
These hands are not cluttered like my house can be. They are unattached to material. They are dirty under the nails I used to bite and still do at times. These hands do not know how to be harnessed - but they know how to be held. Entangled, entwined, involved with another set of hands - who hold mine - who I can hold. That's part of my foundation.
Instead of concrete - colored or not - my hands find foundation through touch. My hands are sometimes cracked from the dry Interior winter air, the thousand times sanitized throughout the day, sometimes bloody from picking at the skin around the nails and hardly ever manicured.
Maybe my dinners don't taste as good because of this.
A small piece of knowledge I picked up from my best friend's dad. He was a psychologist and the smartest person I know. I believe everything he says - even though he can fill a story with more bullshit than truth. You know when he does that, though, because he'll bellow out a laugh after - look down and rub his bald head, belly bouncing from laughter. His nearly toothless smile propagates mine. We'd all collectively laugh - or add to the sarcasm we are usually drowning in - launching off each other's energy and wit. He is the guy who calls me kiddo with affection. He's the one who offered the advice about my breakup.
"When the foundation is broke, it can never be replaced." That was after I left my boyfriend the first time.
I thought I could defy him - like I can all the people who look at my hand. My lonely, empty hand - bare.
Maybe forever.
People can't believe I've made it this far without getting married once. How could I have survived the wolves all these years. Little do they know I am one. I suppose there are more unbelievable things.
Like a broken foundation.
I refused to listen to this advice. "I'll show him. I'll show him I'm not like the mould. I'm different."
In the end, or what is at least an final intermission, my friend's dad was right. The foundation of our relationship wasn't built without cracks, though it wasn't damaged without repair. And after five years of wet concrete and caulking the cracks, maintenance of rusted pipes and even the purchase of a new home - the foundation remained compromised beyond anything we could fix together. The structure was there and the interior and the exterior - while often messy, cluttered and unkept - was operable, tolerable. I guess just not solid.
And now, three years later, my home is still at times messy, cluttered and unkempt, my own foundation appears to be settling. Maybe I am breaking the mould. The foundation is jiving together without luxury travel plans and a large bank account, even with pools of tears soaking into it. My foundation is getting stronger - and not only to support the structure of my self - but grounding too. Deeper and stronger. Organic. With personality and color.
"Why would you color concrete to support your house?" they'd ask me. "What's the point if it is covered in dirt and houses the musty smells and damp leftovers of yesterday's experiences? Where dreams go to age like a fine bottle of wine - becoming better over time?"
My hand is bare and my fingers are short, just like my grandmother's hand. But her finger always had a ring on it. That was what you did back then, especially if you were 14 and pregnant. Her nails were always painted and when they chipped, even if it was two hours later, they would be redone for dinner.
Dinner tastes better when women with finely manicured nails serve it.
I used to never paint my nails, because I had the unfortunate curse of biting them.
"Boys won't like you if you keep biting your nails," my dad told me growing up. It was a threat that if my ugly behavior wasn't corrected, there would be consequences. It was saying my habit made me less desirable, a trait we didn't want. I tried to quit, but if I was stressed, or bored, or if they weren't exactly symmetrical from one side to the other, they wound up in my mouth. I'd only notice when they started to bleed.
I've told lovers this over the years - especially after I learned the advice from my dad initiated sympathy. Which I could then use as a tactic to get what I wanted. Which was essentially for them to tell me they loved me despite this ugly part of me. This was in some way a signal of their unfettering fixation on me - a most worthy muse.
Clearly this strategy as failed me. It's clear by my bare hand. Not only just the place where a westernized version of love is to be displayed, but by the bare hands - ten bare fingers - signalling freedom - a carefree spirit - no obligations or personal risk. No one at home. Security.
These hands are not cluttered like my house can be. They are unattached to material. They are dirty under the nails I used to bite and still do at times. These hands do not know how to be harnessed - but they know how to be held. Entangled, entwined, involved with another set of hands - who hold mine - who I can hold. That's part of my foundation.
Instead of concrete - colored or not - my hands find foundation through touch. My hands are sometimes cracked from the dry Interior winter air, the thousand times sanitized throughout the day, sometimes bloody from picking at the skin around the nails and hardly ever manicured.
Maybe my dinners don't taste as good because of this.
1 comment:
Fascinating, Mindy... Hands do make impressive statements in a thousand different ways,huh? Very nice... Jude
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