I used to be vain about my hands. It irked my piano teacher to hear arpeggios marred by the click of long, polished nails. I’m sure poor Leah would turn over in her grave to know that what failed to succumb to Chopin has long since been sacrificed on the altar of Flora.
I was struck by a comment made by a chef in an interview on Food Dude’s site (I’m hoping Nancy will see this and send us a link to the interview). In a nutshell, he took pride in the gnarly state of his hands. They served as testament to having paid his dues in the kitchen. Gardeners would be wise to adopt a similar philosophy. I have lumpy cartilege in my palms and a big scar where I sawed into my hand near the wrist with a pruning saw. Bag Balm is nearly magical stuff, but even going to bed greased up to the elbows can’t quite counteract the effect of mucking about in the dirt. Let me caution you against wearing greenish gardening gloves. My most painful moment came when I mistook my thumb for a slug and gave it a vicious snip.
What was your most colorful or disfiguring mishap? If you are a gardener, I’m convinced you have had them.