Like a Glove

I knew from a very young age that I was different.
I remember watching movies, such as Ace Ventura, where the phrase was stated, "Like a Glove!"
Me: Discombobulated.
Rest of world: Resolute.
Cue retrospection.

I would look at my hands, and have visions of wintertimes and me trying to fit my boundless digits into confining mitts. It was like trying to stuff one of those big puffy sleeping bags into the tiny carrying bag it came with. You NEVER could get it back in there like the day you bought it.
Reluctantly, I would make do and don the gloves, dealing with the sensation of having webbed hands. After all, I only had to deal with the webbedness for about a week before my fingertips would push themselves out the top of my gloves, creating trendy fingerless gloves. It was like a person trying to deal with a pair of pants too short; Sag them down, and you have webbed-crotch. Pull them up, and your ankles despise you.
Hence, the description of fitting "Like a Glove" confounded me. Why would you ever want anything to fit like gloves fit on me? No thank you.
Fast-forward to last night. After already convertible-izing two pair of gloves this season, I went to the store to buy new ones. I was in a reflecting mood. There were decorations that reminded me of my dearly-missed grandmother. As I made my way to the "Winter Accessories" section, i saw some Isotoners. My mother has them. My grandmother had them. They must be good. But will they fit?
I perused the selection, and noted the incredible texture.. Genuine leather. Hm.. Lined with cashmere... Hmm... There was a notably sexier-than-the-rest pair, which also had lycra in the mixture. It was the only pair i could find like them, so i tried them on.

Snug.
Marvelously snug.
And my fingertips weren't crammed.
Room to breathe?
Stretchy-yet durably warm delights.
Like a glove.