Heather Locklear holds hands all the time and it doesn't mean anything.

The latest People Magazine had an article about Heather and how she'd been seen with Jack Wagner, an actor she'd worked with on Melrose Place in the '90's. An onlooker said, "they were holding hands and really focussed on each other."
However, the article went on to say: Those who know Heather say entwined fingers do not a relationship make. "She holds her friends' hands all the time," says a pal. "Men, women - it doesn't mean anything."

I am so not like that.


But am trying to stay open-minded to the idea that if someone holds your hand, it just is a way of expressing short term, undivided interest in that person and the conversation you are having.

So, when I was talking to the guy who was DJing the radio station's on-location gig at a local restaurant and he took my hand, I thought of Heather and decided not to get all worked up about it.
He was on one side of an ugly brown '70's style railing with clumsy fat spindles and I was on the other. He placed his hand over mine, then worked his way around to entwining our fingers together, all the while talking to me.
"Don't you have to, like, get behind the booth and play a song, or something?" I asked.
"Not yet. I'm playing some commercials right now." And he continued to ask me about my life, seeming to be very interested.
We keep chatting and I'm feeling very happy, when I notice a column halfway across the restaurant. It's been covered in gold crackled mirror tiles, like the ones my dad used to make a "feature wall" with at their old place on the farm. I notice that they have distorted my reflection in a positive way, and my stomache looks flatter, which goes along nicely with the huge smile on my face. Embarasssed that I'm looking too eager, I say again, "How long is this commercial break? You haven't played a song in like 5 minutes."

He hopped over the waist-high railing and put his hand in mine again, and said, "Don't worry about it. I've got a few more minutes, come on, I want you to meet some friends."
He pulls me in close and we walk over to the pool table where a bunch of guys are BSing around a billiard table passing another one of those dated mirrored columns on the way. Somehow I've got better posture in those mirrors ... I'm standing taller and the stomach? Gone. Those gold speckled mirrored tiles must be magic. How can that be? And why did we throw away boxes of them when we moved dad and mom off the farm? I should've saved them. I'd love to cover my walls at home with them.

We meet the guys and they talk about the weather, the latest news, the road conditions, the time ...
I squeeze his hand, which I'm really liking, and I say, "Hey, music? Don't you need to play some music?"
Why am I always the diligent one? The one who has to remind everyone to stay on track? The one who is responsible? Or as my niece says, "the one who has to control everything"? Why can't I just let him be responsible for his own radio show? He's obviously been at it for years, surely holding hands with me has not curdled his brain cells. I tell myself to shut up and let him be the man. And then I think of Heather and tell myself that he might be just like her. Maybe this hand-holding thing means absolutely nothing to him.

We say goodbye to his friends and meander back to his booth, passing the mirrored columns again. My thighs weren't rubbing together, in fact my legs looked longer in my black jeans. Must've been the new boots I was wearing. The whole effect was pleasing to me - no stomach, long legs, a good hair day and silly grin on my face.

He hops over the railing, turns toward me and places his second hand over our clasped hands. "OK. " he says quietly, gently caressing the back of my hand with his index finger, "it's been 10 minutes without a song. This next one's for you."

And with my eyes closed I hear Roy Orbison singing "Pretty Woman".

And with that I really wake up, realizing that I'd just dreamed through 10 minutes of my clock radio's attempt at arousing me from my slumber.

So I woke up sad that Jim Belushi really isn't a DJ who held my hand.

And mirrored tiles? They're still just ugly.