Why I Can’t Stop Comparing My Hands to Other Women’s

It feels ridiculous to type this out. Like I’m confessing to stealing a nail polish from a drugstore when I should be confessing to grand larceny. It feels small. Juvenile.

But then, isn't that where the heat lives? In the things we’re supposed to have outgrown?

I was reading one of Raven's stories. The one where the evening is dissolving into wine and firelight, and she has a friend over. The atmosphere she described was so thick I could taste it. But it wasn’t the wine that wrecked me. It was the moment the conversation stopped, and the physical proof began.

She described the act of comparing hands. Just that. The simple, ancient ritual of pressing palm to palm, stretching fingers out to see who holds the power. It's such a stupid thing, isn't it? A playground game. “Let’s see whose is bigger.”

I’ve been doing this my whole life. I remember being in a class, tenth grade. There was a girl, with these delicate pretty hands.. I made up some lame excuse, something about ring sizes just to get her to press her hand against mine. I remember rush I felt when our skin touched. The power I saw my fingertips extending past hers, my palm swallowing the heel of her hand. It wasn't sexual then, or at least, I didn't have the vocabulary to call it that. It was just... power. It was a secret victory.

I’m a grown woman now. Work too many hours, spend too much money at Starbucks.. Have been married one already. And yet, I am constantly, secretly, scanning the room. I’ll be in a meeting, watching the woman across from me gesture with a pen, and I’m not listening to the quarterly projections. I’m mentally measuring. I’m wondering: If we put our hands together right now, right on this mahogany table, would I win? Would I make her look small?

It makes me feel like a predator. It makes me feel childish and obsessed. But there is something so raw about the act of it. It’s not subjective like "pretty" or "sexy." It’s absolute. When I read Raven’s account, the way she relished the contrast, the way the firelight danced off her polish, I felt seen.

I realized I’m not just looking for size. I’m looking for that moment of surrender. The moment the other woman looks down, sees the difference, and laughs nervously, or pulls away, or—if I’m lucky—shivers.

So yes. I compare. I find moments to high-five, to compare nail shapes, to "check your ring size." I am always hunting for that little electric shock of difference. I used to go to the same manicurist all the time because of her hands (she actually did a poor job) , but I guess I will save that for another story.