On my way into work the other day, I was listening Bob and Tom talk about this news story with a guy who thought it would be a great idea to commit suicide with a power drill. This didn’t work out very well for the guy who apparently had the tenacity to drill seventeen holes into his head before finally biting it.
Now, if that’s not tenacity, I don’t know what is!
Sorry to be callous, but its kind of a shame to have such a driven being taken from us. Imagine what he could’ve accomplished if only he’d have set his mind to it – possibly lessening our dependence on crude, stopping global warming completely…maybe even invented the Hoverboard (which I am still waiting for Back to the Future 2)!
Anyway, this brings me to the topic of my blog – my tenacity and the three Transformers band-aids on my fingers.
Ok, now what is it with me and my fingers? If I’m not getting crazy glue on them and having to scrub like I just dipped my fingers in a vat of liquid laced with Ebola, then I’m cutting them all to shreds.
Please, do not ask me about how fingers and power drills go together, but in Erin’s brain, they somehow make sense together.
Anyway, the hands of a twenty-something I do not have. The hands of a five-year-old? Sign me up! Ok, so, they’re a little big and overgrown for a five-year-old, but let’s leave that discussion for another time.
Anyway, back in January, I was cutting clear, plastic tubing for a Luau craft for 50 girls and an after school at another school also for 50 girls. The tubing was thick and wasn’t the easiest to cut. I took the skin off of the lowest knuckle on my thumb, and also scraped the skin off my pointer finger. I didn’t help my fingers heal any quicker when I decided the second craft would be tissue flowers and of course, I would have to cut the tissue.
That Thursday, I ended up hanging out with a new friend and going to movies when he saw the multiple band-aids on my fingers and asked me what happened. Hard to believe, but he didn’t think anything negative about my stupidity.
This past Wednesday, there was another after school program that I was at. We were making sit-upons. Sit-upons are a cheap, Girl Scout way to make a seat cushion. You get a tablecloth and cut two twelve-inch squares. You then punch holes in the squares and lace three sides of the cloth together with string or yarn. Before you thread the fourth side, you stuff the cushion with newspaper or stuffing, then thread it all up and abracadabra – you have a seat cushion!
Anyway, we have shitty hole punches that are killing my hands trying to put holes into the vinyl table clothes. So I come up with the beautiful idea to use scissors. Holding the scissors open, I take one of the blades and jab it into the tablecloth. It cut a lot more effectively than the hole punch did.
In fact, it cut so effectively, that it nearly cut the top of left index finger, cut the side of the same index finger and cut across the top knuckle of my left middle finger.
Yes, I’m a brainchild.
Anyway, the sit-upon did end looking beautiful. And it was easier to thread than the hole-punched sit-upons.
While I never really had to have band-aids covering every square inch of finger and hand available, I’ve never had pretty hands.
As a gymnast, there were always calloused and dry from gripping and swinging around the bars. When in college, I had a better time keeping them from looking nasty, but then I graduated, came home, and started working nights at my old gym.
I love gymnastics. It is a passion of mine. And I take plenty of pleasure in still being able to do some of the things I can do. Like a back handspring (which I’ve been able to do for over twenty years) and a standing back tuck (which I’ve done for about seventeen years).
One of the major things a gymnastics instructor has to do is “spot” students or support them and help them complete skills they are just learning. Spotting younger girls isn’t as bad, but when girls are learning back handsprings and running tumbling, nails are a rare luxury. Wearing fakes would be like running around with a joint in one hand and a beer in the other, half-naked and gloating at Jason Voorhees while he wielded his machete.
Also, the calluses came back because suddenly I had to show my students exactly what they needed to do on the bars. Further compounding the problem of calluses is working out. Holding weights and gripping just does a number on your hands no matter what.
But still, I persevere. I haven’t put a power drill to my head yet, but I’ll make sure you guys know before I do.
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