Five Stages

I found a dark spot the other day. A slight discoloration between the knuckles on my left hand, so delicately placed between my forefinger and the middle finger.

At first I thought Oh, my hands are dirty, but no matter how hard I scrubbed it didn't come off. Then I thought I might have dyed my skin with something. Nope. NOPE. A dark fleck that signifies nothing more than me getting old has appeared in the one place I can't hide.

I'm only 25 to crying out loud! This shouldn't be happening. Don't these things happen to middle aged women and those who have kids? I'm not old! I'm still young! This isn't fair, I haven't done anything with my life and why are my hands punishing me?!

I'll do anything, ANYTHING, to get my hands back to how they were. In high school I had dainty hands that could so anything and played the flute with precision. I'll go back to playing if that's what it would take. I'll find the fountain of youth and beg to have my hands back. Take my car, take my apartment, take my savings! Give me back my youthful hands!

I knew this would happen. I've already wasted a quarter of a century fooling around. I play games all day, drink beer like it's going out of style. I don't fit in any of my clothes from college. I'm fat, slow, non-flexible, and now this. I've lost a part of myself and my hands are telling me.

I look at my hands now and they start to resemble my mother's hands. At my age she was already married with a kid and had started a business with my father. They are working hands. I start to see that maybe this is okay. I'm not a child anymore and my hands, much like my face, is a reflection of my dedication to better myself. If I could look anything like my mom at her age I'll be happy. Maybe they make a cream for this, too.