What to do with my hands...

I was out the other night with one of my favorite men (I currently have three and want to write notes to their mothers about what great men they raised - but that’s for another blog) and we went to see one of my fav bands - Vertigo Road (www.vertigoroad.com) - at a Genghis Cohen’s. It was a really lovely evening - good food, good company, great music. But halfway through the band’s set I realized something -- I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

I know it sounds strange but when you’ve been with someone for 16 years, you don’t think about things like that. He was a very affectionate person - always connected to me whether it was his hand on my thigh or my hand on his back. We were always in contact physically. I never took that for granted because I have friends whose partner does not touch them ever. It’s one of the things I really loved (and still love) about him.

Anyway, sitting on this bench type seat with this darling friend, I realized I didn’t know where to put my hands. I don’t like to sit with my arms crossed because it makes me feel closed down and defensive. The back of the bench was too high to rest my arms on. But more than that, my instinct was to put my hand on the leg next to mine. And while I think my friend would have let me and understood instinctively that it was something I needed, I think it might have been a little weird. So I sat fiddling and shifting, trying to find a good place to rest my hands.

See, no one tells you about these weird things that crop up after a relationship has ended. No one thinks to say, “You’re going to miss putting your hand on his thigh” or “You’re going to miss him in the car next to you.” They don’t tell you about those little things.

So I sat, my hands flat on my lap like dead fish. And I ached, for a brief moment, for it to be him next to me, just for the comfort, just for the simplicity of not having to think about it. Just because I missed him a little.