Mr. Blue Collar Blues

His hands were coarse, rough, and stubby; they were made up of hangnails, clogged cuticles, and dirt. She cringed at moments when he touched her. She cringed at the sight of them. She cringed and her teeth would grind at the thought of them being so close to her that she could see the veins pulsate underneath thick layers of skin. Thriller flick type shit. She was accustomed to soft, well manicured hands; "cleanliness is next to godliness" is what he use to tell her, and she held onto this thinking that became a belief.

She felt as though her dreams were being murdered by these dirty limbs of his. Her thoughts would drift off to old dates and times when cleaner hands, more gentle hands, less selfish hands ruled and rocked her world. Hands that nurtured her thoughts, wants, desires, and her dreams. Plush lips and white teeth, soft words and intelligent conversations. She couldn't wrap her mind around how she had gotten herself somewhere and with someone who didn't complement her.

A white collar girl. That's who she was attracted to; this is the type of woman she grew into. Business suits, ties, and briefcases. Low cuts with aviators. They wear their confidence in their eyes and in their walk. They worked hard in the boardroom and played harder in the bedroom. Monday through Friday men who mingled at after work happy hours and played at swanky hotel suites.

Still, for the life of her she couldn't figure out when, where, why or how she ended up here, with him, Mr. Blue Collar. Mister who works long days to try to make ends meet with a little bit of something left over to last until his next pay.

She'd awakened one morning, facing the ceiling, eyes quivering and mind racing, thinking. Love is all that was on her mind. Successful love. Rocket ship knock me off my feet sort of love.

All she wanted was a love that was true and enduring. A love that lifted her off the earth's stoney surface just as easily as the autumn wind shuffles falling leaves. She just didn't want these hands who would provide that desire, those wants. She wanted the hands she missed. The soft hands who worked effortlessly and selflessly. The hands she admired. She didn't want this with him. And she knew it. His hands, she thought, were just a glimpse into just how much dirt he'd done and would do if she continued on this road.


So she got up. And ran. And would have run forever if need be to get back to her Mr. White Collar. Mr. Clean with the well manicured, healthy, clean hands and the bedroom eyes that read her better than her favorite book. She ran away from Mr. Blue Collar Blues because his blues was just too much for her to bare. So before things got so deep that she couldn't escape, she ran. And never looked back.

Anthony Hamilton, "Best of Me"

Back To Love