Tokyu Hands

it's a beautiful saturday morning and I really should be outside biking on Bukit Timah with Zhirui, or windsurfing, or working out in the club gym, or playing tennis, or ..., or... BUT I'm stuck at home instead staring at my stigmatized hands. I have only myself to blame.

My hands got torn apart first on Thursday when I took the new Starboard Formula 175 out for my virgin run and I got blown away by the wind and suffered one of those uphaul trauma episodes. Stuck somewhere around 300m off the coast and drifting rapidly towards Bedok jetty, I tugged and tugged on the uphaul rope, slipping and sliding all over and off the board uncountable times, as my hands first blistered then tore. Desperate, I even tried swimming back to shore, lugging the board and the ton-of-bricks 7m sail behind me, but it was quite futile. This was when I discovered the miracle of human survival instinct. I swear that the body musters reserves of energy you never knew you had in times of crisis--I gave the uphaul one more go and thankfully managed to sail myself to the beach.

That was Thursday, and my hands really weren't that badly hurt, but then came Friday. Heading down to the beach once more, I was seduced again by the howling winds and the possibilities of the new board and sail; ignoring my wounds, I hopped onto the board for one run, just one run, I told myself. Bad bad mistake. I got barely 100m out when I decided to turn the board around and head back. Wind whipped the boom out of my hurting palms and the sail fell again into the water. Back to the uphaul fight. I yanedk on the uphaul rope with all the life left in me as I see blood and pus oozing out of my hands. I almost screamed.

So now, I'm sitting in front of my computer wondering at my own stupidity. Was supposed to have gone salsa dancing last night with Usha and Celine. It didn't happen--we got intimidated by this one guy who looked like psycho nerd from Full Metal Jacket dancing to moves from some 80s Footloose/Flashdance variant, the whole time we were there at Xen Bar, this dude was completely fixated on his own reflection in the mirror and dancing vigorously to himself. Oh, did I forget to mention the rapid multiple pelvic thrusts? Scary. Salsa did seem pretty fun, however, with all the hand-clapping and foot-stomping and hip-shaking. It was dance oomphed up with sexual innuendo, with the couples exchanging furtive glances and the occasional suggestive brush of hand against back or waist. Just as advertised on the Xen Bar website, "the dance floor is filled with couples dancing in close proximity, with the male’s knee in between the girl’s legs. It is like being transported to the Caribbean Island where no one wants the night to end. This is probably the only club where a male can be this close to a total female stranger without offending her." Now we know the target clientele. Anyways, it was a good thing in the end we didn't have to dance last night. I was quite worried about the pus shooting out of my palms onto whoever's hands I would have had to hold while dancing. I was actually running all the possible scenarios through my mind. here's one:

Girl A and Me dancing to salsa beat
A: how come you're wearing white gloves? you think you're michael jackson har?
Me: umm. my hands get cold easily.
A: ....
(in the middle of a spin)
A: EEEEE! there's a splotch of blood on your glove!!!
Me: don't worry!!! it's just dried up pus, not blood. not lai ang la.
A: eh Sanchez! get this guy away from me!

I imagine if there had to be a bouncer at a salsa club, his name had to be Sanchez amd he would have greased up hair and a curly moustache.

P.S. I got the title of this post off a Japanese dept store. I never quite figured why they called themselves Hands, but it's neat.