It's funny, I've been thinking about my hands recently. And by recently I mean over the past several months or so. I never really thought about my hands once before. I mean, as a kid, my mom told me that I had long fingers like my dad and that I would be great at playing piano. I did take lessons for a little while, but if you've ever taken piano lessons, you know how downright tedious they are in the beginning. I didn't last long. And, again, from my parents, my fingers were so long - I was destined to be tall. As a kid who for whatever reason delighted in dreams of one day becoming a model (along with a writer, and a veterinarian, and I forget what all else), this was great news. How tall? I would ask. Oh, 5'7, 5'8 probably.
Forever stunted at 5'3 1/2, I've forgiven them long ago. But still, lately, I've been looking at my hands. I've noticed little tiny freckles (yes, I will call them that) that weren't there before. In fact, as I look at them, they don't look as youthful as I remember. Why? This doesn't seem fair. I guess I forget about them when applying sunscreen. So, over the past several months, I've become more diligent about sunscreen on my hands and arms even when I'm just doing everyday things like driving the car on a sunny day.
This bothers me, a little bit anyway, although no one else seems to notice or mind. My daughter loves holding my hands, and being hugged, and my son is very accustomed to my ruffling his hair, patting him affectionately on the chest, or grabbing his face to plant a kiss on his cheek whether he likes it or not. So if they've noticed my new set of hand freckles, they haven't said so. I'm thinking it probably doesn't matter.
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