I Should Have Been a Hand Model

I have long, skinny fingers. Like how you would imagine a skeleton's hands looking. Bony. Maybe a better comparison would be to E.T.'s fingers. Especially when he points to the sky and his pointer finger lights up and he says, "E.T. phone home." Remember how his fingers looked in that scene? Now you know what my hands look like. Except I'm a real white girl and not an alien with a big head. Although, I might have a slightly large head too. That's what my aunt says anyway. And my pointer fingers don't light up. It is kind of a bummer. It would have really helped in that haunted house.

My mother enrolled me in piano lessons (against my will) when I was about 6 years old. My sister and I went kicking and screaming to every lesson. The only exciting thing I remember about it was when my father took us to a grocery store after our very first lesson to buy each of us a notebook that our teacher would write our lessons and "homework" in every week. We got to pick out what color we wanted. It made me think that maybe piano lessons wouldn't be so horrible since I had an awesome colored notebook that I would tote in every week. I was wrong.

I learned the basics of how to play the piano. I learned how to read music and my basic chords. I even learned how to play "Chop Sticks" and the "Heart and Soul" duet with my sister. We stayed with our first teacher for about 4 years, and then we moved to a new town. My mother of course found us a new teacher immediately. Betty Reed. 

Mrs. Reed was a nice enough older lady. She could play the piano exceptionally well and taught several of our classmates from our new school. So we began with our new teacher. She was appalled that we knew so little after having four years of piano lessons already. She wanted to take us to bigger and better things. She told us about recitals we would perform in. Our pictures would even be in the newspapers! I will admit, I was kind of excited. I was going to be a prodigy!

That never panned out needless to say. I soon realized that I still hated to play the piano. Whenever Mrs. Reed would ask us to choose our own pieces for the recitals, I would always choose dark, moody pieces so I could let out my frustration on the keys. Mrs. Reed became to expect this from me, but she also tried to sneak in a few happier pieces, like Canon in D. No. My experience with Canon in D has ruined that song for me. It will NOT be played at my wedding. 

Getting us to practice was torture. When I knew I had to practice, it was like my hair was being pulled from my head strand by strand. A slow, painful torture. I really hated it. And Mrs. Reed always knew when I hadn't practiced enough for the lessons. She would look at me like she just knew. I would try to stammer out that I had practiced enough but the piece was just too hard for me, but she knew. She knew I was lazy. 

But it didn't seem to matter how lazy I was every week. No matter what, she would comment on my hands. "You have such long fingers, it is so easy for you to reach an octave!" "Your hands are beautiful piano player hands!" "If you would apply yourself, your long fingers will really help you to get better!" It was creepy. Here I am, a 12 year old girl, being told her hands are really going to get her places. Mrs. Reed would even comment about my hands in front of people I didn't know at recitals. Once, I got an award for Most Improved. But I really think it was just because she had some weird fetish with my hands. 

Eventually, my mother let us stop taking piano lessons. We hit high school and just got too busy for the lessons every week. My mother told us she was heartbroken over it, but I think she was secretly relieved not to have to hear my sister and I banging on the piano like a couple of woodpeckers would bang on a tree after she had to yell at us to practice in the first place. But still, my mother would sometimes comment on my hands, saying the same things Mrs. Reed would say. Except she eventually started to add in, "You should be a hand model!"

As I got older, I became aware of my scrawny hands. They were actually quite nice looking. At every family function, I would try and make sure that my hands were in the forefront and that people would comment on them. I would even grab my grandmother's hand just so she would say something out loud about how beautiful she thought my hands were. Which she would. Which would make me feel even better. 

I tried my hardest to figure out how to actually become a hand model. I eventually realized that I would have to get serious about my hand maintenance. I would also have to make a portfolio. A Portfolio. I was WAY to lazy to get serious about hand modeling. I mean, I was not going to be so vain as to take pictures of my hands holding things. or modeling jewelry. I will spend hours in front of the mirror every morning, however, to make sure my face looks the best it can. But my hands? Nope.

I went off to college majoring in pre-pharmacy. I am going to a private university, so it is quite expensive. My mother, the first two years, would often say that I should get into hand modeling "on the side" to help pay for school. I felt like my mother wanted me to get a pimp and use myself for money. Well, my hands at least. Sounds dirty, right? 

Obviously, that never panned out. 

So, in four years, I will hopefully be a pharmacist. That kind of uses my hands. My hands will probably end up getting wrinkles prematurely. I'm really going to hate that.