Anyone else recall the (late 70’s) commercial where two women compare tops of hands & the chronologically OLDER is proud to possess “younger looking hands” all thanks to XYZ product?
Was it Palmolive?!
(Google isn’t much help with this factoid as I sit here blogging in “real time” and brain-dumping as the Child & Doodle slumber.)
I somehow internalized through that advertisement my age would always be revealed by the state of my ‘hand skin.’
I also somehow internalized (misfit alert!) this fact was merely interesting & not a ‘bad’ thing.
Rather than fret about the wrinkles or age-spots (another 70s term) which may be headed my way I looked forward to possessing these as a sign of having lived.
I still do.
My rapidly wrinkling hands make me smile.
Not only am I thankful to still be here no matter the state o’the hands—my calloused, rough hands are emblematic of all Ive done.
They are tangible evidence of the fact I’ve lived and played & not let life pass me by.
Last week I surprised the Child at school for lunch & snapped a picture of our hands.
As my iPhone camera focused, froze & clicked I was was shocked how old the hands in the frame appeared.
These digits have seemingly vanished overnight:
The chubby, dependent pair has been replaced by hands which, to my biased mama-eyes, look stronger, sturdier and far more capable.
Hands which look able to give as well as receive.
I’m off to spend the day with those hands (& the child attached to them).
I’m taking advantage of President’s Day off from school
and forcing her to weave those newly sturdy fingers in mine.
Whether you have the gift of no-school Monday or not—I encourage you to pause today and take note of the myriad strong, loving, capable, having-lived hands around you.
And, if you’re feeling
ballsy like some closeness force their fingers to intertwine with yours, too.
comments are closed. go grab you some hands.