Are Those MY Hands??

Brown, crunchy, dead leaves blew into the foyer this morning as I opened the door to walk my dog, Popcorn.  The leaves swirled as I watched them gracefully and arrogantly land throughout the entryway.  Popcorn needed to go out and wasn’t about to wait while I immediately swept them away, so off we went, postponing the inevitable clean up.

The brisk air was invigorating as it hit my cheeks.  My outlook was brightened and I felt content as Popcorn and I took our quick stroll.  After a few minutes, Popcorn was ready to return home.  His energy is waning, as he is now 14 years old.  As I opened the front door to go back into the house, more brittle leaves blew in, some caught in the doorway, some to Popcorn’s paws.  But, no matter, I thought, I had to clean the floor anyway.

After unhooking Popcorn’s leash and hanging it in the foyer closet along with my coat, I walked into the laundry room to get the broom.  I swept the foyer and only then did I notice some additional stains that needed a bit more muscle.  The leaves were now a thing of the past, so I wet a sponge and decided to spot clean the stains on the tile.  As I knelt down and began cleaning, I gasped…whose hands were these?

Dry, older hands were holding the sponge.  They couldn’t be mine, could they?  When did they get so old looking?  How could that happen without my realizing it?  I put my rings on every morning; do I not look?

I thought back to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s date has “man hands”.  He stopped dating her for those hands that made his stomach churn when she brushed an eyelash off his cheek.  What did people think when they saw my hands?  How can I reverse this?  Are there “hand lifts” like there are “face lifts”? Would I get the work done if it was even possible?  All these thoughts bounced around in my head as I methodically, robotically, moved from one tile to the next removing any random spots, my thoughts racing a mile a minute.

I am in my early 50’s.  I never really thought about aging before.  I know that might sound odd, but it’s true.  Of course I realize I’m not going to be mistaken for a young person and I realized that my age may not enable me to be as marketable in the job market as a younger person; but, I also never contemplated actually being an older person.  I am just me, the same me I always was, wasn’t I?

My foyer has never been so clean as I worked in a trance-like state.  Thoughts entered my mind that I never really dwelled on before.  I am getting older, that reality, not simply the taking it for granted, seeped in to my head.  I am aging, I am heading full speed ahead into my AARP years, and there is no turning back.  Will I age gracefully?  Will I be fortunate enough to keep my wits about me? 

Before I knew it, I had reached the point where the foyer tile met the den carpeting.  There were no more tiles left to scrub.  Not as easily as I would have liked, I worked myself into a standing position and went back to the laundry room to rinse the sponge. 

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom with stealth determination.  I remembered the woman at the cosmetic counter recently giving me a sample of anti-aging, hand cream.  A sample I had thoughtlessly placed in my night-table drawer, thinking that wasn’t for me, not yet.  Now, with unbridled determination, I rubbed the anti-aging hand cream deeply into every pore of my dry hands. 

I may not be as young as I used to be, but hopefully I’m not as old as I will grow to be.  And certainly, most definitely and defiantly, I won’t give up without a fight!