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Insulated Fingertips

2008-09-28 - 10:28 p.m.

Song I've Been Listening To On Repeat: Thru and Thru - The Rolling Stones

Listening To: Vilayat Khan, Sergio Mendes, Herb Alpert, Ra Ra Riot

Quote: "I don't know if I should do meatball since I'm wearing pants today." - Jamie, to Zach & Joyce

     I'm pretty sure I'm an involuntary bulimic. Every time I hear the words, "Sarah Palin" I vomit all over my shoes. It's cheaper than a gym membership I suppose. Now, now - before all you sevens and sevens of Sarah Palin fans get all up in my business about how darling she is for droppin' all her "g's", and how charming she is for believing The Flintstones really happened, and how delightful she is for getting witchcraft protection from her local church, just remember one thing: I don't care. Take it up in your inflammatory blog. Blog? Isn't that what kids are calling it these days? Seems when I started writing in this here space 6 years ago that people still called them "cyber yellow fatty beans". But what do I know?

     Well, I know my fingertips seem to be unnecessarily insulated, that's for sure! Which doesn't make much sense; my taste buds, eyes, skin, and nose seem to be frighteningly exposed! So why all the Tyvek and Pink Panther wisped around my fingertips? The treadmills at Planet Fitness refuse to give a reading of my heart rate when I'm running, jogging, walking, kabukiing, etc. I've tried pressing harder than usual. I've tried just barely setting my fingers on the reader. I've tried saying the magic word. But, like some sort of aerobic vampire, I register no heart rate. My fingertips are just too insulated.

     Which? Is strange. Since your fingertips are your first and last line of defense. I count money with them. I sign my name with them. I point with them. I tap my teeth with them. I fumble with paper clips with them. I shake your hand with them. I gesticulate to get the cat's attention with them. I tuck your hair behind your ear unasked for with them. So I need them to be at the ready. I need them to be lean. And sometimes mean. I need them to grab the clothes off the rack and put the car into drive. I need them to unlock the door. I need them to take the lead on the dance floor.

     I'm all done at the Diamond Mines on Friday. I told them I'd come in and help on a Saturday if people were on vacation - but I don't really want to do that. I just felt bad. I probably will end up helping them anyway. That's just the kind of person I am. My new job is so close that I'll actually be able to walk to work! At least when it's not tropical storming out. Which seems to be all the rage lately. No, I didn't really want to go Six Flags with Nick, Kate and Rick today anyway. That wouldn't have been fun at all. Nope.

     These are the finger tips I've always had. And, god forbid some sort of woodshoppery gone wrong, these are the finger tips I'll always have. I can try to make them stronger. I can try to uninsulate them. ("Uninsulate"! Now THAT is a scrabble word!) But they're my finger tips. And I just don't want to be able to read my heart rate - I want it to be strong and steady and full of life. Treadmills don't lead anywhere no matter how fast you go. I'd rather have gone a little slower, but on new concrete - not old rubber.

       It's been real,

         Henry Gondorff

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