Right hand. Middle finger. Top joint. The side next to the pointer. There is a callous. I bet that if you are between the ages of 45 and death, you have a similar callous. Unless you are a lefty, so it’s on your left middle finger. Or if you were one of those weirdo kids who held their pens funny. I made fun of you back then, but look who’s getting the last non-calloused-finger laugh now? Anyway… That callous came from years of writing. Miles and miles of ink and lead. Schoolwork, Dear-Diaries, homework, SlamBooks, notes to friends and love notes. Oh the love notes!
During my elementary school years, I would cross the monkey bars at recess until I got blisters on my palms. Band-Aids never helped. I would continue my trips to the bars (even then…), and blisters would pop and form again (and lots of really icky stuff in between, but I’ll spare you the details) until I eventually got callouses. Those would last until the end of the school year.
Summertime. Shoes? We don’t need no stinkin’ shoes! I owned a couple pairs of flip-flops. Because beach and pool. Duh. But the rest of the time, I ran around like a homeless child with bare feet. I lived in Texas and California, so the ground was hot. But by the end of summer, I couldn’t feel a thing. My feet were calloused and perma-black from tar. I remember mom taking me shopping for school clothes at the end of each summer, and the hardest part was finding shoes that felt “right”. Poor old Buster Brown was probably cringing each year as I slouched through the door.
Later on, booby-nips and fingertips became calloused from breastfeeding and testing blood sugar levels.
Callouses may not be pretty, but they are nature’s way of protecting us from pain. Saving us from further damage. What a gift!
I find it funny… no, not funny. Interesting? And maybe a little sad… that the heart never seems to get that magic layer of egg crate foam.