My left hand has a death wish. To look at it, you wouldn't think that it's any different really from my right hand. Fingers the same length - pretty much as strong. In fact it should be happy, it has a saucy little mole and I wear my wedding ring on that hand. My left hand should be all "Hey, check me out suckas!!" Instead it tries to commit suicide at least twice a week.
I walk or run daily on the treadmill. Every other day in the midst of this obligatory cardio, my left arm randomly flails whereupon I whack the hell out of my left hand on the treadmill. Without fail, my middle finger knuckles feel the brunt of of this flailing, resulting in near permanent bruising and the inability to interlock fingers with anyone.
Perhaps it's not my entire hand that craves death, but rather only the knuckles of my middle finger. Science has yet to create an accurate communication system with one's body, so I can't check this theory.
David has offered to wrap the body of the treadmill in protective foam for me. And although having the treadmill encased in split pool noodles for my safety would add a certain je ne sais quoi to the equipment, I have graciously refused. Mostly because being a grown woman who has to have things padded for her safety is patently ridiculous.
I will agree to wearing these though. My workouts will now begin with revving noises.