Time on my hands
I looked down at my hands today and didn’t quite recognize them. I remember my mom explaining this phenomenon to me. One day you look in the mirror and some old person is there looking back at you. You don’t recognize the wrinkles, the sun spots. Just as today I barely recognize these hands. Spotted, softer, more discoloured than I remember. It’s quite amazing actually. Our bodies reflect the lives we live with such deep expression. A crease for each time I clenched my fists in frustration. A mark where I burned my finger making the most delicious cookies. Spots derived from a sunny beach vacation where my baby started sleeping through the night. A scar from accidentally slamming my finger in the door my first year of university—I still managed to go out dancing that night!
It’s hard to comprehend society's obsession with youth. I look at my babies with wonder at their soft and flawless skin. Feet that have never walked all day. Have never danced until dawn. Have never stubbed on the corner of the bed. Again. And again. And fuck! Again! Why do I keep doing that???
Their sweet bodies are so beautiful. But they’re not mine. Because I HAVE walked all day, danced until dawn, stubbed my toe five hundred times in the same damn spot. Why should I pretend I haven’t?
My best friend passed away unexpectedly before he turned 21. I wonder what his hands would look like today? Would he have accidentally cut the tip off during a DIY project? Would his thumb be ever so sideways from a mishap in boxing class?
As I drift into my late 30s, I’ve found myself inundated with pressure to maintain youth: there are infinite offerings on how to smooth my skin. It’s so tempting! If ever my confidence in aging wavers, I remind myself of him. Of those old hands I’ll never get to hold. Because when I really think about it, unchecked pursuit of youth feels like a disservice to the wonderful and long life I’ve been allotted. We are made of aging flesh, not sterile plastic. How wonderful!
The world wants us to caulk our fine lines; hide the stories of our lives. But I’m going to spend all the time I would’ve spent wishing for smooth skin, admiring the skin I’ve earned. Think of all that time saved! With that kind of time, I could really get to know these unfamiliar old hands. So much time on my hands.