Hello from McMadness. When Jamie asked me to fill in for Confession Friday I was pumped. (Does anyone still say pumped, or has it gone the way of ‘da bomb?) I figured I must have dozens of confessions to choose from. So I searched the deep recesses of my soul to come up with a really good one to share. Do I confess that I read text messages over people’s shoulders on public transportation? Nah, everybody does that. What about the fact that I secretly buy candy, and eat it in hiding so I don’t have to share it with my husband, then feel so guilty about it, that I buy even more candy and bring it home for the both of us? That in fact, the guilt set in yesterday evening as I was at the See’s counter for
a free sample a scotchmallow for my commute home when I thought of my poor husband without any See’s candy and I frantically shouted “WAIT! A CHOCOLATE BUTTER! AND A RASPBERRY!” Nope. Still not juicy enough.
Then I remembered. Small hands. I fear them. Specifically, small hands on men who are not small. Small hands on big men. And even more so when those big men with small hands have small feet. And if those small feet are in shoes with tassels, it’s over. It drives me to the point of distraction. I will sit in meetings, where I am supposed to have all these serious lawyer thoughts, and I do nothing but stare at the small hands across the table. And every so often take a sneak peek at the small feet. It’s wrong, and mean, and these large men with small hands and tiny tasseled feet cannot help it. But I can’t control the fear.