The world through itch-colored glasses

Two weekends ago, at the steepest part of the downward slide into poison oak rashiness, I attended a special hand analysis workshop in Orange County, not too far from Disneyland and Angel Stadium.

When I told the hand analysis class I was itching, they thought I meant ‘itching to learn,’ which was true, in a metaphoric, cliché-ish way. But it was also just plain true. In fact, the angry-pink blisters on my calves were not only itchy. They were starting to seep, too.

Poison oak rash aside, I was indeed curious about what I’d learn in this three-day Hand Analysis Intensive workshop, for which the objective was, “to become equipped to decode the patterns on the finger tips and lines on the hand to offer practical and meaningful readings. After this weekend workshop you’ll be able to tell anyone their Reason for Being!”

Imagine. I could just walk up to anyone–anyone with hands, that is–and bestow upon them the kind of information that many people live their entire lives without knowing. Information so valuable that it bears capitalization and an exclamation point.

“Psst, hey buddy, wanna know your reason for being?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t talk to crazy women.”

“But, I’m not crazy. I just want to look at your hands.”

“Right. If I give you a buck will you leave me alone?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I can tell you your Reason for Being!”

“My Reason for Being! Why didn’t you say so? I’ve been wondering that all my life. Which hand do you want to see first?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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