I Must Brush Up on Meeting-World-Leaders-Who-Touch-My Shoulder-With-Their-Man-Hands Skills

So, last night at chick night Happy Hour, my friend Carolyn and I discussed the size of mens' hands over martinis. We discussed other things, too, some not even clean enough to write about here on my drinkingandcussing blog. But nevermind that, back to the hands. Now, this isn't to say that a man's hand size is 100 percent indicative of penile size, but generally, let's face it, hands say a lot. The eyes, yeah they're good too but the hands...

A few months ago, I was sitting at a Ruth's Chris bar with a friend and there was this business man eating a  petite (yeah, a PETITE) filet, and all I could do was stare at his tiny, freakishly small hands as he tried to make smalltalk with us, and think of his poor, poor wife. And I felt totally sorry for him. I don't think penis pumps really work, what can a man do? A woman can get vag rejuvenation, boobs, butt implants, their own butt fat injected into their lips, lipo, the works. What can a man with tiny hands, and regrettably, a matching penis do? It's not fucking fair, and I feel for that guy. I was totally nice to him.

ANYway, mens' hands. Even if they're not overtly gigantic, but proportionate to his frame, they are a fairly good indicator of his ... junk. And also, even if they aren't just super-duper large, they can still testify to how well he knows how to use said...junk. I didn't just fall off the turnip truck here, people, I do know a few things.

So Carolyn and I, for some reason, brought up the hands of our former president, Mr. William Jefferson Clinton. Around here, in his original neck o the woods, we call him Bill. That man has some gorgeous, and large hands. Long, elegant fingers. He's always using them, flailing then about during speeches, touching his temple with them. I notice these things. So, call this coincidence or what you will, but whose baby-soft, large, expressive left hand only a short four hours ago was rubbing my left shoulder? Yes, that would be Bill's. We're now on a first-name basis.

I was sitting near the front door of Starbucks, because it was full and my usual seat in the back was oddly taken. There was a college girl studying a seat near me. Through the glass doors we both notice Secret Service guys unloading from an untinted SUV, and we wait to see who appears. Jim Bob Duggar? Star Jones? Maybe I dunno, Justin Beiber? No. A big lovely white head of hair popped out and I immediately knew. "Holy Shit!" my Tourett's syndrome resurfaced.  As he slowly entered, the girl stood up and quietly told him her father was someone who had worked with him, and died last year, and they shook hands. She was very serious and almost solemn, I'm just sitting on my stool, trying to contain myself, chomping at the bit for her to stop. I thought, I am NOT gonna let this opportunity pass me by to meet a world leader at Starbucks. And it WONT be like when I met Mr. Big at Peet's Coffee in LA. (What's the deal with coffee shops anyway? and why didn't they just drive through?). Anyway, he looks at me, with that face so familiar I feel like he's family, and I stand up and ask, gushing like a little girl at a Jonas Brothers concert, "can I shake your hand too?" "Why sure, says Bill, and grabs my little (this is a good thing if you are a girl) hand with his big, soft, manicured, intelligent man-hand, and shakes it and holds it, as I fumble to impress him that my brother's  cousin's girlfirend's dad or some shit worked at the Rose Law firm when he and Hillary were there and nothing comes out making ANY sense. Not an ounce. And he shakes his head like, yeah, and i ask if I can take a picture. "Sure!"He takes my iPhone and hands it to a (cute) Secret Service guy, who takes an off-center picture when Bill takes the college girl's and my shoulders under his big manhands and poses. I have on a strapless sundress (of course) and his lovely soft hand rubbed my shoulder a little bit. Now, that's kinda like kismet or somethin' right? The hand thing? Bill's not thaaat old, is he?...ha ha. Stop calling me Monica.  Also like an idiot, I asked, "can I put it on facebook?" as I take the phone back, and Bill says, "Sure, you can do whatever ya want  withit! ...So you live here too?"
SO, with a shithole start of a day, a little hungover, just a little, and somewhat depressed, I meet a world leader. Nevermind that I was a total dork, I think he found it endearing. But, I have a tendency to always think of something waaay cooler to say after the fact of meeting someone famous. Or anyone really, for that matter. Here's what I should have said to Bill, "Oh, hi. My friend Carolyn and I were just talking about your big hands over drinks last night. Coincidence? I think not." (if you are my FB friend you'll find that there too.). That woulda been fuckin' cool. But oh well. I think he dug me.
And then, to make my day even better, I tried hot yoga, like seriously hot, with heaters and all that, for the first time and as the yoga teacher said, who is also my music soulmate, apparently, I'm "blissin' out." I walked out of the steaming hot room into the steaming hot Southern heat and it felt like Springtime. About 65 degrees. And I felt like the martini and wine(s) that I had last night were left on that towel on my yoga mat. Awesome. I got a new drug.
~R