My hubands Hands and My Hand were Competing

I have a confession. I have man hands. Yes. It's embarrassing. And that is why I will only share this in the intimate setting of the world wide web.

So I came up with a brilliant solution.

I told my hubby one day, “I have man hands.”

“No you don’t," he argues.

“We wear the same ring size!”

“Your fingers are long and slender.”

“They have hair on them.”

Awkward silence.

He just sits there. He knows where this is going.

“Soooo, I’m getting fake nails.”

I threaten to make an appointment. It's tough to measure MAN hands against Money. But ultimately, the Man Hands won, and off I went to the salon. However, ladies, let me warn you that when I made the appointment, I was under the illusion that I was pampering myself. Let it be known, let it be written, that fake nails are NOT a way to pamper yourself! They are a sacrifice of pain and terror. Here's how it goes:

First, they tear off all of your cuticles. I yelled at them to stop. “Owww! Holy crap! This sucks!”

They just keep doing it. The other ladies at the salon just looked at me. One lady nods at me knowingly.

I mouth to her “HELP ME…”

Then they take out this drill thing. I thought those were only used at the dentist office.
No one told me this was part of the process. I squirm.

The nail lady laughs. “Oh, honey. We are going to toughen you up.”

Wow. I didn’t know that’s why I came.

Then they primed my nails with this burning ointment.

By now, I’ve conjured up a pretty good lawsuit.

But before I know it, all torture ceased, and magically, my Man Hands disappeared. Maybe I wont sue. I'll just take two Ibuprofen instead.

Then I head up to the cash register to pay for my nails. My credit card drops to the floor. I try to pick it up. I end up with my butt in the air, chasing the card, as my new fake nails push it forward. Yep. This is going to be fun. I can tell.

I head home with my new nails.

As I walk through the door, I grab my hubby's hand in excitement. “Look!” I lock our fingers. “Now when we hold hands, I can tell which one's the girl and which one's the boy!”

“So? How was the salon? Was it fun?” he asks.

“It depends on how you define ‘fun’. If you prefer torture over Man Hands, then yeah, way fun.”

And quite frankly, I do. Our hands look different now, his and mine. They are now two separate entities rather than identical twins. I can feel like a feminine woman, and he can feel like a manly man. And even though he may never admit it, I think he likes it.