The Hand
Be careful who you try to pick up at Pilates, Ed
Hi Sarah,
The text to me began:
Great meeting you at Pilates today. Really enjoyed our conversation about startups, innovation and healthcare.
Best Regards, Ed _______
Oh, this oughta be good.
Seems Eddie, Edward, Eddikins, Pookie-bear of Edwardville, and Sarah met in Pilates, had a lovely conversation and he decided to look her up in the Club directory to maintain the connection.
“He’s a silver fox,” Sarah admits. “We spoke for like 30 minutes,” and then — to ensure I knew the way the cards were stacked and how the wind blows — “he’s attractive… and, well, yeah, I still got it.”
Nice work, Ed. Gotta hand it to you. But, before you commit to the connection you hope to establish, I should properly inform you about The Hand.
The Hand is always there and it often tells me what to do. It’s a marshalling wand, articulating, directing, determining, clarifying, ensuring action. The Hand dictates in a sign language all its own. It has a dialect. It clarifies with minutiae.
Sometimes the Hand curls into a claw, ready to pounce: rigid, fingernails clacking, hawkish, scary, sending a message that requires attention. The Hand rises into a flattened palm fingers splayed. It means to stop and it means to smack. It means hide from the photograph by the stretch of a starfish.
The Hand sometimes turns upside down and points with one finger as if to say, 'obviously,' or, 'you have got to be kidding me.' Occasionally The Hand’s thumb juts out, arched beyond ninety degrees, like the stick of a popsicle or the lowest branch of a great pine. I admit that sometimes I'm unsure what the thumb is saying, but no doubt it’s telling me something — and I'm even more sure that I should know what that is.
"Put that away," sometimes I say to the Hand, as it appears, or when it gets nervy and aggressive, flapping about too wildly, making its point, serving its purpose, being upset or deterministic or demanding. I won’t be held captive by The Hand, I think. But really I know I should be, if I know what’s good for me.
Years ago The Hand would have nails painted in day-glo pink or marigold yellow, to be waved during business meetings, hypnotizing men mid-sentence who would lose their train of thought and offer, "yes ma'am."
The Hand curls in disgust. The Hand balls into fists. The Hand sometimes scratches you when she's coming in for a hug.
I feel lucky to know The Hand, to know what it’s saying and why it says it. It's taken years of learning - a conscious effort to understand it even if it is accompanied by no sound - and I now speak its language as it has always spoken mine.
I think of The Hand as I write back to Ed:
If I had a nickel for every guy who texted Sarah after Pilates, I’d be a rich man… haha!
And then to punch it home,
This is her husband, Dave — I’ll pass it along.