Like the back of your hand

I overheard a guy the other day, saying to his friend "I knew her like I know the back of my hand." He went on to explain whatever it was that she did that shocked him, knowing her as well as he thought he did. I quit eavesdropping... and looked at the back of my hand.

Wait. Don't do it yet. Fight the compulsion to look at the back of your hand. You'll get a chance in a bit. Hear me out...

When I looked at my hands, the first thing I noticed was that they were hairy. Way more hairy than I remembered them being. So hairy, in fact, that I wanted to look at other people's hands to see if mine were in the normal range of hand hair, or whether, in my long absence of regular hand checking, I had become Teen Wolf. There was hair even between my knuckle segments, sometimes only a few, but certainly noticeable upon close inspection. On my ring finger, on my right hand, there were three stalwart strands of wispy black hair, all facing right like they been fighting a wind for years on top of a mountainous ridge. Just for the hell of it, to see if it would hurt, I pulled one of them. It didn't hurt much, but the two remaining hairs looked pissed. I reminded them how lucky they were to be on a place as nice as my finger, and not somewhere else, like my taint. They straightened up, and I've haven't heard from them since.
There are bluish veins that run across the back of my hands, looking like rivers on road maps, that end in the valleys between my knuckles. Right on top of the bluest vein on my left hand, there was a small green dot. The dot appeared way too green to be natural, so I scraped at it with a nail. It came off, never to be seen again. Who knows how long that green dot would have been there had I not noticed it?
I have three freckles on my right hand and only two on my left, which is good, since I am right-handed. It can handle the extra weight.
There is a scar on my right hand from a spill I took on my bike when I was a kid. I remember the long, slobbery crying walk home, holding the bloody stump of my hand in front of me. I also remember my brother, struggling behind me trying to push both of our bikes while bitching at me. The scar would be a lot more noticeable if wasn't covered by a layer of hand fur.
I have small hands, with short fingers.
I will never be a hand model.

Do you think you know me like you know the back of your hand? I doubt it.
Go ahead, take a look. Scrape off anything that doesn't look right.
Count your freckles.

If you read my blog long enough... you might get to know me better, but probably never as well as the back of your hands. Since I made you look.

Ha. Made you look.