My Hands Look Old

MyHandYou can’t always tell how old a woman is by her face, but you can tell how old she is often by her hands.

Hands don’t lie.

In the winter, my hands look much older than they do in the summertime. They are dry and white and flaky. They need to be moisturized constantly.

I miss my summertime hands.

My summertime hands are tanned and glowing. My jewelry looks good on them, especially my new ring and my Michael Kors watch. But right now, my hands just look old.

There are other parts of me that look old, too, like my stomach and my thighs. But I don’t look at them every minute of the day like I do my hands.

You can’t help but see your hands constantly; there’s no shaking them, like when you’re driving, typing, slicing up raw chicken on the cutting board, or putting your daughter’s hair up in a ponytail.

There they are: your old, tired, worn-out, dry, flaky winter-white hands.

God has a sense of humor and wants us to recognize that we’re aging—not hide or deny it—and so he lets us see our hands as a constant reminder. He put them there on purpose.

When I look at my daughter’s hands, I want to tell her how much she should appreciate her 10-year-old hands. They are pure and fresh and dainty. They look lovely.

We need to bring back the movie-star long gloves so we don’t have to look at our aging hands. Cover them up, all the way up along the forearm and past the elbow.

Because, quite frankly, elbows are another case in point altogether.


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