Man hands. . .

I have an evil awful habit. I'm an avid nail biter. No bad tasting polish nor fake acrylic can keep me from pick, pick, picking at them. It's a horrible vice that I've had since I was a child. At 14, when the orthodontist put my braces on, my mom was convinced that I'd not be able to continue to chew on my hands. But folks, where there's a will there's a way, and soon I'd learned how to maneuver around all that metal. Occasionally, I'll find myself in the nail salon having falsies put on for one special occasion or another. And for a week (minimally) my natural nails will have an opportunity to thrive, that is, until, I'm able to see them growing under the acrylic, at which time I will pick at them from underneath.

It's sad, I know. I definitely need an intervention.

I'm fairly confident in the fact that I don't really look my full 42 years of age. I suppose it's partly due to my freckles, and partly due to my attitude. However, if you were to look at my hands, especially lately, you might think I was much older.

Since continuing The Challenge, I've recently noticed the development of callouses on the palms of my hands. Apparently they've been there for a while, just never paid much attention. All this weight-lifting has given me what I call "man hands." I showed them to Trainer Mike last night. The conversation went down something like this:

Me: Look, I've got man hands!

TM: So?

Me: It's gross!

TM: I've got them too.

Me: But you're a man!

TM: (shrugs his shoulders) Buy some gloves.

Apparently my dilemma was lost on him.

Oh, and I'm not ready to buy 'gloves'. Gloves are for serious lifters, and while I'm completely serious about this Challenge, I'm not quite athletic enough to wear weight-lifting gloves. Maybe when I make it to "buff and toned" status then I'll invest in the gloves.

Until then, please, don't look at my hands. You might consider that I'm lying about my age. . .