Please! Hide ‘em.
That’s how I feel about my hands.
They’re all speckled and freckled. You know that over-ripe banana you have downstairs in your fruit bowl right now, the one with all the brown spots on it? Yep, that’s how my hands look.
nd they’re pudgey. Or at least my fingers are. What’s with that?
My husband recently looked at an old photo of me holding our newborn daughter, immediately after giving birth (when, ostensibly, I was at my puffiest/pudgiest self), and
exclaimed, “Look how long your fingers were!!” (If I ever learn how to scan a photo, I’ll post that pic and a present-day pic of my hands to prove it to you.)
Oh well. Such is the reality of these aging body parts. Will I spend time/energy/money to get them lasered at my dermatologist’s office? Absolutely not. I’ll just continue to be vigilant in keeping my hands down and hidden whenever possible.
Moving on to a more non-superficial, gracious commentary on hands: I’ve always kind of had a thing for hands. I
think they’re truly one of God’s supreme masterpieces. Quite beautiful, actually. And think about their function, purpose and beauty. Helping hands. Holding hands. Praying hands.
Here are three of my favorite images of hands.
Awwww. Remember that?
Michaelangelo’s David’s hands. Exquisite.
So, yeah. My hands may be all mottled, weathered and pudged-out, but they’re still in good working order. And I’ll take them over anyone else’s any day. Hands down.