Middle Age Snuck Up on Me!
Middle age snuck up on me. Surprise! It was like one day I was youthful, and the next I realized my boobs were supposed to sit two inches higher.
I wasn’t disappointed, just surprised.
I suppose, eventually, old age will spring upon my consciousness in much the same way. Though the other day, in a calm state of semi- meditation, I flashed upon a mental image of myself as an elderly woman. This is not something new. Coming out of meditation, I’ve glimpsed my future self before.
This time I was much older. I wasn’t alarmed though. My green eyes still sparked with curiousity. A touch of athleticism graced my frail arms and legs, like a faded memo of strength. And my hair was long and tangly. This bothered me. So many years gone by and I am still not at peace with my hair?
But my hands were still my hands. I’m not sure they’ve ever felt youthful. As a child growing up on the Canadian prairies, the winters were particularly brutal. I had eczema so bad I’d soak in a doctor-prescribed tar solution daily. At night I lathered my hands in Vaseline and wore thick cotton gloves to bed. Still, my knuckles cracked and bled constantly. The shame and embarrassment of being the girl with the bloody hands was a lonely existence, broken only by spring (as in JULY because snow in June wasn’t unheard of), and finally, a move to a warmer climate.
My hands went through hell all those years, and ever since their weathered texture has been a badge of survival. As I sit here writing this I realize I truly love my hands.