Callus.
Anything worth doing is bound to leave a few unsightly marks and rough spots.
No amount of moisturizer can cure the massive calluses that form on the inside of my hands after a deadlift day at the gym. Trust me: I’ve tried using all kinds of creams to hide the rough bumps that form just below my fingers, but nothing has worked so far. For about twenty-four hours after I deadlift, the calluses will make their presence felt, and there’s nothing I can do about them.
It’s not just deadlifts, of course — they are just the worst culprit. Any kind of weight work at the gym that requires a strong grip leaves me with the rough patches on my hand. Deadlifts are particularly taxing on my grip; trying to pull upwards while a few hundred pounds of weight are pushing down against me makes it imperative that I hold on tightly, and that my hands are securely around the bar. By the end of a particularly good deadlift workout, my forearms are screaming in pain, my hands have taken a nice rosy shade, and the base of my fingers feature gorgeously large calluses.
Early on in our courtship, L noticed those calluses. We were holding hands while walking, as we are still wont to do, and she remarked on the roughness of my palms. I grinned, sheepishly: it’s hard to explain to someone that your most visible output of going to the gym four days a week is a calloused hand, rather any kind of change of body composition.
She’s used to the calluses now. She still reminds me to use moisturizer every day — I tell myself that I just have naturally dry skin — but understands that there will be some days when I will get home from the gym and the skin on my hand will feel like sandpaper, at least for a few hours. She understands that twenty-four hours after a leg workout, my hamstrings will be sore enough that it will take me a few extra seconds to get up the stairs, or that after a shoulder workout, I will need to pull out a step stool to reach the middle shelf of our kitchen cupboards because I just won’t be able to lift my arm that high.
I like to think that this is proof that we love each other and that we are well suited to each other. She has become used to my little quirks and intricacies, she knows how I react (physically, emotionally) to various activities, she sees my oddities and absurdities and embraces them. She has seen and felt my calluses, literal and figurative, and still holds my hand as we walk through the city.
A friend recently asked me why I do not wear gloves when I work out; she claimed, rightfully, that a good pair of gloves would not just improve my grip, but would eliminate some of the unsightly calluses on my hand. I didn’t have an answer for her that seemed rational; instead, I told her that I didn’t like the way the gloves felt on my hand, and that I felt like I had better control of the bar when my hands were bare.
The real answer is perhaps absurd: I do not wear gloves because I have grown to love the calluses on my hand. Sure, they are rough, and feel awkward to the touch. Sure, the hardened and peeling skin is unseemly and unattractive. Despite this all, I am attached to the post-workout calluses on my hand.
I have grown attached to them simply because they remind me that I am doing something good. They remind me that I am pushing myself to my limits and then extending those limits, every day. Each hardened bump at the base of my finger is a reminder that I am taking a step to being a better me, that I am following through on my commitments to myself. They are a physical reminder of the work I am putting in: work to become healthier, stronger, happier.
I notice this most when I spend some time away from the gym — the holidays are usually an excuse for me to spend two weeks eating and avoiding much physical activity — and my hands regain a smoothness that is slightly unsettling. There are no more remnants, any markers of proof that I am working hard at being a better me; the calluses go away, and with them, some of my motivation to return to the work that brought them there in the first place.
The callus is my proof to myself that I am investing in myself, and that investing in my health is something worth doing.
In the end, anything worth doing will leave some unsightly marks, physical or figurative. Our hardest work, our most intense efforts to become better versions of ourselves — whether that is becoming healthier and more active, removing ourselves from toxic relationships, accepting our bodies as beautiful, teaching ourselves to see things from a new perspective , or any other such lofty pursuits—will all undoubtedly leave some scars, some rough spots, some emotional or physical reminders of what we have done or are doing.
Sometimes, those marks will be unsightly, like calluses; sometimes, they will be hidden. Either way, we will notice them, and we will remember the strength we had to go on the journeys that left them there.
