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I’ve got love handles but I also love handles. They make me feel connected to the world.

Of course, in my line of work I consider it important to have something to hold into. But since I was a child, I loved anything I could grip. Starting with mom’s hand—okay, one finger of her hand—and a rattle, I associate gripping with safety and wellbeing.

Safety and security are great but there’s more. Doorknobs provide a sense of direction, perhaps even meaning. Drawer handles represent order. Ladders mean progress.

I took up golf, because I love to grip a club, and baseball to grip the ball. (They told me I should play softball because I was a girl, but you can’t really grip a softball.) I really enjoy gripping my husband in many ways, but I’m not really comfortable describing them.

As I get older, I find myself slipping, getting less agile. Two weeks ago, I lost my grip. Marty flung me perfectly, but I stretched out my arms too early. They were already falling back when I needed them the most. I was close—so close—but the trapeeze was just beyond my grasp. I heard Marty yell “Cynthia, no!” but that was too late. The net softened my fall nicely, but then I tumbled and landed funny and I broke both of them. My precious opposable thumbs.

Bummer.