When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming a hand model.
I watched QVC and practiced the twisting and shifting of shiny rings on my fingers. I maintained long nails from a young age, trimmed tidily (kind of) and kept clean according to the rules my father placed on nails of a certain length. I anxiously and fastidiously tended to dry knuckles during those winter months when my hands suffered through the extreme fluctuations of indoor and outdoor temperatures.
I did all I could to care for my hands, proud of what they were and how they danced and glided over everything I did.
Only two things kept me anxious about my future career. The clammy, sweaty nature of my palms, and the nail on the ring finger of my left hand. It had fallen off when I was younger, after being slammed in a door, and it grew in a little wonky - nothing too noticeable, but I worried for it under the cruel glare of the lights and the unforgiving eyes of the camera. But my right hand was lovely, I reasoned - and the women on QVC and the Home Shopping Network often showed off rings on their right hands, so it'd be fine!
But I failed to consider how difficult the hand modeling industry was to break into. And with no contacts, no scouts in little Ozaukee County, Wisconsin to discover me, and, quite frankly, no real effort in finding out how one becomes a hand model, my career never went past amateur level - that being walking around my house, showing my family members how much prettier their jewelry looked when on my fingers, glittering under the nearby lamp's soft glow.
Tonight, though, the flames of my career passions were reignited - the embers were fanned by a small group of casual friends around a delicious helping of mint oreo frozen custard. A friend was looking at one man's hands and considered them to be nice hands. We had another young man put his hands on display and considered them to be even nicer hands. Though my friend was focused on the men's hands, I placed my own hands on the table - partially because it was comfortable to lean on the table as I considered their hands, but mostly because I couldn't help joining in the comparison.
And my vanity was well-fed. With the oohs and aahs that immediately issued from their mouths, the dreams of my youth rushed to my memory as they whispered, "you could be hand model!" Smiling, I agreed that perhaps I could've, and I acknowledged there was a time that I wanted nothing more.
But the life of a supermodel is a hard one, and I knew the cigarettes and diet coke diets could only hurt my strong, healthy nails, and the stress of the runway would age and wrinkle my soft, ageless skin. And I decided one day, in my early twenties, that the fame and money and celebrity lifestyle was worth the price it would extract from me. Sure, I could go to any parties I wanted, date A-list actors, fly on private jets all around the world. But the hard-hitting lifestyle would ruin my hands - this career would not have a long shelf life, and after maybe 5 years of being hand modeling's "It" girl, I'd be left with shriveled fingers and yellow nails for the last 80 years of my life. And I didn't want that.
Better to be able to physically touch the lives around me for good with these hands, then to never be able to physically touch anything at all. Perhaps not as many people know these hands as well - they're not reaching people all around the world in magazines and television - but those who have known these hands, they have been truly touched. I've always preferred quality over quantity.
And so I sat there in that custard shop, sharing beauty and happiness with a small group of friends. And I felt fulfilled in my life. Yes, I could've been a hand model. But just because it is not my profession, it doesn't mean I can't live my life influencing those around me for good with these gifts and talents I have been given. I can still share that which I have with others. Beauty is not only for the rich and famous. Everyone deserves the opportunity to bask in beauty's rays.
