Sometimes, people comment on my hands. I have long fingers and they were the source of many lectures from my piano teacher when I was a kid. “You’re not following the fingering,” she’d yell at me. Well, of course not. My hands are three times the size of a Victorian person’s hand. Why struggle with all the fancy footwork when I can just span an octave and then some.

So it wasn’t that much of a surprise to hear people at the record store ask me if I was a musician. Much like my mother, these customers were also disappointed to hear that I gave up the piano. You have great hands, they’d lament. I’d shrug. What can I say. When playing the piano became like math, I just couldn’t find the time.

What was a surprise was when I was at a bar in Korea and a Chinese man next to me motioned to my hands.

“With your hands,” he said, “I could make twice as many noodles as I do now.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yes. Long fingers, very good for noodlemaking. With your hands, I would be king of noodles.” And then he gave me the look of disappointment I have grown so accustomed to when my hands come up in conversation.

And so yes. I could have had the hands of a great musician. Or the king of noodles. Instead, I just have hands that make finding gloves that fit – suck.