When You’re Not a Precious Thing
One of my oldest girlfriends and I have a long-standing joke about each other. I giggle at the way she delicately uses her fingertips to pick anything up. She looks like she’s doing ballet or touching intricate clock parts even when she’s stirring a post of soup or cleaning out a hamster cage. It’s amazing. She’s not a more feminine woman than I am, but she handles the world light as a feather, and it really is something to behold.
She laughs with me at how I handle objects, even tiny things, with my whole hand, a strong, wide grip — like I’ll need the strength of a heavyweight champion to pick up a ladle. I’m a loud worker, a full-forced stirrer, stomper, and laugher. I come at the world with a heavy touch.
I am not a precious thing. I never have been.