My Husband’s Hands

When I met Brett, he did not look like the clean cut guy he does today.

In college, he had long, shoulder-length hair and a beard that covered two thirds of his face. I like to joke that it’s a good thing he has incredible eyes, since that’s all I could see when we were dating.

But there was one thing I found absolutely irresistible about him (even with all that hair).

You see, it was weird for me to be attracted to anything about any guy. I was fresh from a bratty, legalistic Christian high school. My high school must have been unique (at least I hope it was) as it was completely filled with guys who were absolute jerks. My high school was filled with one cruel, chauvinistic, legalistic, jerk after another.

I estimate that at that point I believed that 98% of boys my age were absolutely worthless. I headed off to college believing that statistic held true for college men as well.

After all, I’d never known anything different.

Thankfully, within my first few weeks at Moody, I discovered I had cut the men of the world a very raw deal. There were jerky guys at Moody, too, of course, but they were heavily out gunned by the nice guys.

I met one wonderful guy after another. It was such an odd experience for me to be able to talk to a guy and not expect a look of disgust or disinterest in his eye.

I was so completely naïve, having never been regarded by men before, that I didn’t even know when I was being asked out on a date.

One guy asked if I liked ice cream. If I did, he knew this great little place just outside the city. I was with my roommate at the time, and I said, “Sure, I like ice cream. Just let me check with the other girls.”

Noting his crestfallen expression, my roommate had to take me aside and say, “Honey, he’s asking YOU for a date, not the whole floor!”

My jaw hit the floor. THAT had never happened to me, and I was mortified.

Within a couple of weeks, I got into the swing of things, and for the first time ever, I had friends who were GUYS! It was a weird yet wonderful thing to experience.

So, when I started dating Brett, I was still adjusting to “liking” guys at all. It stand to reason I would like an older man, since I found immaturity still raised my hackles with memories of my high school tormentors.

Brett is nine years older than me, and I found the maturity of his age was well worth all the cradle-robber jokes we had to endure (He was 27 when we started dating; I was only 18).

But, back to what I found attractive about him.

We were on a date, probably in the first couple months. I don’t remember exactly when. He was talking to me and casually put his hands on the table, moving them back and forth to make some point.

I found myself staring at those…those….catcher mitts on the table. His hands were huge. Easily three times the size of my own hand.

I immediately wanted to touch his hands. To take them in my own and just feel the length and breadth of them. To match my palm to his and get lost in those warm and welcoming fingers.

I resisted, of course, because even a naïve 18 year old knows that holding hands is a big deal for someone who has never dated and only recently begun to find any kind of man remotely attractive.

I found myself looking at his hands and his massive wrists with renewed interest over the next couple of dates.

Looking back, I don’t know why it seemed amazing that his hands were so huge. Everything about Brett is big. He’s 6’4” and wears size 16 shoes. It’s not like I was dating a petite man, but those hands just seemed so gigantic.

My resistance paid off when we finally held hands for the first time on a cold winter’s night a couple weeks later.

We were huddled in our fleece jackets, standing at the end of Navy Pier, listening to U2 on the parade speakers while we looked out at the sky. It was our favorite place to go on a date because it was (a) free and (b) absolutely deserted in the middle of winter (as it is not the best place to keep warm in Chicago).

It was not a romantic moment, despite all that, since Brett was very nervous about holding hands with me. He was always nervous with me, because he knew everything about dating was new to me. He’d dated before, but I was new to everything, and he didn’t want to screw up my experience.

So, he actually asked if he could hold my hand. It wasn’t as sweet as it sounds. The way he asked was more like a lawyer trying to seal a contract so he can’t be sued later. Still, I said yes and those gentle hands finally covered mine.

I haven’t let go since.

Since we’ve been together, almost eleven years now, I have loved his hands. I love to hold then, trace them, and wrap my fingers around his wrist (they don’t go all the way around).

Brett and I are very affectionate with each other. We like to think it’s because we both grew up not being cared for or even remotely liked by the opposite sex. So, we overcompensate with affection now, by trying to always remind each other that we love each other by touch. That we are valued and cared for now.

Last night, I was nearly asleep when Brett put his arm around me. He drew me in tight and gave me a good night hug. I looked over my shoulder and saw those big, beautiful hands and thought once again how much I love them. And him.

So, even though he doesn’t ask me if he can anymore, he still holds my hand. And my heart.

And I still want him to.