The kids told me not to write about: a grown man with baby-soft hands.

I don't know why the offspring object so strongly.  All it was was, my friend Joan and I were at Dunkin Donuts, getting coffee and a chocolate glazed, and the young Indian gentleman proffered the receipt to me even though Joan was the one who had paid, and so I reached out my hand toward the receipt to take it, and when the young man's hand accidentally brushed mine, my brain almost jumped out the top of my head, because it felt like an adult-sized baby hand.  I'm not kidding.  Anyone who knows me even a little would have admired the self-control I exercised in not immediately shouting, "Whoa, your hands are crazy-soft!  Let's try that again!" and grabbing his hands just to check.

Cute on a baby, unnerving on a man.

How does a person grow up to work in a donut shop and have their hands remain so blissfully innocent of life's experience?  Maybe he follows this hand care routine, or perhaps he soaks them in donut glaze at night.  Or - and I really don't want to entertain this - he has some kind of "baby" disease, a Benjamin Button-y one, that turns his skin softer the older he gets.  Or (least plausibly) he is actually just a giant, especially well-spoken baby.  The mind reels at the possibilities.  Next time, decaf for sure.