Fingers

I have small fingers. I have always known that, since my hands feel worn and tired after I attempt Chopin and Rachmaninoff on the piano, with the dizzying harmonics and scales of the former, and the latter, the pounding 5-note chords extending beyond an octave.

One friend remarked that my fingers resemble that of a midget's, "it's out of proportion, quite tiny relative to your arms."

They may be small, but they're quite nice, I am told. One former office colleague wondered why it's smooth and soft with no callouses at all, almost like a girl's. In the hospital one nurse kept complaining that she couldn't find the vein she was supposed to insert the dextrose needle into (Ron, ano ba yan?), she surmised that I probably live like a señorito at home.

"Oh, it's the piano, it does wonders to your fingers, makes it flexible and nimble," which more often than not, is an explanation that would simply elicit the usual, "yeah, right."

If you think there is a correlation between the size of my fingers and...and...ya know...I assure you, that's not the case at all.