crow’s feet

Forget the eyes. It’s all in the hands.

After two weeks of sun, one sleepless night, two and half airplane rides, too much caffeine and not enough water, I looked down at my hands in the pre-dawn, sketchy fluorescent lighting and damn near went into a state of shock.

According to my hands, I was about 75.

Not that there’s anything wrong with 75. I’m just not it.

Now, I was good about sunscreen, moisturizer and even the repair cream that my aesthetician sister foisted off on me. Seriously good. But, at that moment, my knuckles appeared distended and arthritic and every move that my hands had ever made were etched deep in crepe crevices across joints and tendons. It was fascinatingly appalling.

Everyone at work has since commented how un-tanned I am, having spent two weeks on the beach. This, despite the fact that I have a tan line and a few areas that are still freckled and others that are still peeling from too much sun. I was expected to return with a significantly “healthier glow” than I did.

I think, for future reference, that I’ll gladly skip the healthier glow in order to keep my digits a little more me and a little less snake skin [as appallingly fascinating as it was].

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