My hands are beautiful to behold!

I know some readers worry when my blog frequency decreases. They wonder if I’m too hungover to type, have lost interest or, gadzooks, found a job.

My voice has been absent from many topical issues this week because it’s been occupied saying things like, “Please bring me another Jack Daniels.”

But I owe you an explanation as to why I’ve been tardy in addressing some of the important issues roiling the news and here it is:

I don’t care.

I accepted an invitation to travel to the lovely gulf coast region of Biloxi, Mississippi, and Gulf Shores, Alabama. I’m with about 10 other friendly golf writers on a lavish five-day ramble upon the golf courses, through the casinos and in some of the finest restaurants in the Old South.

I’m having a ball. I really enjoy mingling with other writers, especially sports writers.

These guys are so professional and accomplished -- and by that I mean they have actual jobs.

They’re here to learn about how the gulf shores are coming back -- yes, still -- from the 2005 devastation of Hurricane Katrina (the BP recovery, by comparison was a blip and BP’s getting high marks for their efforts). These journalists will return and write stories informing their readers about the opportunities, the hospitality and why this a great time to visit.

Me, I’m eager to share what for me will be the most memorable revelation from the entire trip. In fact, it’s too momentous to wait for my return and I’m interrupting my frolic to issue this breaking news bulletin:

I have beautiful hands!

They’re strong, supple and when Southern women gaze upon them they think romantic thoughts.

I learned this last night when the whole gang, including three of our female hosts, went out for our nightcaps following our evening feast.

One of the ladies, an auburn-haired young beauty, said, “I wanted to tell you we noticed something about you. You have the nicest hands we’ve ever seen on a man. They’re just beautiful.”

I set down my drink and peeked at the paws.

Proportioned, taut, masculine veins pulsing beneath the manly tanned canvass. She was right. They’re gorgeous!

In fact, at that moment the only flaw I could detect was my damn wedding ring was on Lefty.

Now I’m not saying that by complimenting my beautiful hands in a crowded tavern, she was hinting she was eager for me to take them and start rubbing them up and down on her.

But it’s difficult for any man, especially those of us with juvenile dispositions, to hear a fine-looking young woman compliment us and not think, hey, she’s really digging me. I still got it. I’m the man.

I am old enough to be her father. In fact, the night before I almost pretended to be her father.

A security guard carded her as we walked into the casino. She was outraged, which was just silly, of course.

He’s just doing his job, the inconvenience was minimal and the day will soon come when she’ll be flattered by the request.

Yet, she scolded him.

I told her I had half a mind to go back to the old gentleman and tell him I was her father and wanted to apologize for her poor manners. I’d blame it all on her lousy mother.

I enjoy role playing and thought if I could get security on my side maybe he’d look the other way if I tried to steal a few chips from the blackjack table.

By now everyone at the table was staring at my hands.

One guy asked if I ever used my hands for purposes alluded to in the “Seinfeld” episode where George Constanza became a hand model.

I’m not going to say here what I said there, but I will say here what I said there was a total lie.

I tried to deflect some of the attention by asking her if there was a part of her body about which she was particularly proud.

There is. She’s proud of her shapely legs.

She should be. They’re ravishing -- almost as nice as my hands.

I asked if she preferred one leg over the other. She doesn’t and I complimented her for being even-handed regarding her legs.

So now I have this unexpected new life-complicating vanity to lug around. For instance, this story took me nearly three times as long to write because I’m trying not to type as hard as I did before I learned my hands belong on the cover of romance novels.

I’ll try not to let my hands go to my head -- unless I feel something itchy.

I’m bringing my hands home to Pennsylvania on Sunday and will be happy to share them with anyone who appreciates true beauty.

I’ll even let you take your picture next to them. You can use it for your Facebook profile.

One thing I won’t do is tolerate any teasing. I don’t want people to make fun of them for being so beautiful.

Tease me about their beauty and I won’t show you the hands.

You’ll just get the finger.