Having man hands

Lady fingers. A delicate cookie for delicate ladies. Unfortunately, I have large hands for a lady. Heck, I have large hands for a man. Most people's rings can fit on my pinkie finger. My hands get cold in the winter because gloves are too tight. I've never been able to play a stringed instrument because my fingers hit all 17 strings at the same time 
[I know there are marching band nerds everywhere, pushing up their glasses, saying something like, only the harp has 17 strings!! duh!!. To that I say, go back to your D&D game and cut me some slack. 
Remember that scene in the nutty professor where he inflates to giant size and his hands expand? My hands are like that ALL the time. I just have fat hands!! I feel like men look at my hands and think DANG GIRL, how much testosterone do you have coursing through those veins?!


Great question... I don't know! I am a tall girl and if I had little hands they would look weird... I mean, my hands are proportionate to my body. Yeah, I have pride in my man hands!! 
That'a a lie. I hate them. In fact, they get me into sticky situations. Like tonight...


I had to stay late at the office to finish some paperwork. There was literally no one else in he building as I began to wrap things. I went to send one last fax. I walked past our shredder box [we have a large locked box with a slit for papers that need to be shredded. At a later dates, this box is emptied into an actual shredder] and noticed that some papers were sticking out of the box. My oh so professional mind went: Potential HIPAA VIOLATION!! so I decided to fix it. Look at me, being helpful and not neglecting problems in the work place. That's right, I deserve a medal! Our employee of the month! forget that, I'll take a raise! 


But I digress... 


So, I went into fix the problem. I stuck my hand into the slot and shoved the papers out of sight. Tada! Problem solved. Until. 


I went to pull my hand out and realized I was stuck. Like, super stuck. I pulled my hand as much as I could. I relaxed my hand, like 'they' say to do when your hand is stuck in a pickle jar... no luck. 


I felt my pulse quicken. I looked around to remind myself, yes, there is no one in the building. Whew, that would have been embarrassing!! Thanks goodness I'm alone. I am alone.... wait, I'm alone!! And stuck in the shred box! Yelling for help would be pointless. I looked for a phone. My cell phone was 30 feet away at my desk. I tried to lift the shred box, the being to maybe carry the box attached to my arm out into the street and... I don't know what the plan was from there... It didn't matter, the box weighed like 78,000 pounds [approximately]. I thought about tumping [technical term] the box over and rolling it down the hall, onto the elevator and again, out to the street. Again, no plan once I got to the street with the box attached to my arm. But as I considered the quantum physics, geometry, kinetic forces and other sceiency things I realized that the box could potentially snap my wrist in half. If I tumped it too quickly. And remember this box weighs a billion pounds, no way I could control that thing to the ground. 


I considered the alternative of staying attached to this box for the next twelve hours. I imagined my co-workers walking in on me in the morning, huddled on top of the shred box, probably having peed my pants, tear stained face, delirious from hunger [again, I'm a big girl, we gotta eat like every two hours]. This was not an option. I would not be remembered like this! I had to get out. 


What happened next was straight from a comic book. Or an episode of Touched by an Angel. I steadied my mind. I channeled positive thoughts to my hand and the shred box. And pulled. And pulled. And pulled.  


My hand emerged from the shred box, beat red, and [if you can imagine] more swollen than before. I went home to immediately begin my regimen of hand exercises to have more tone, fit hands, so that I can avoid this debacle in the future.