My hands tell the story

I noticed the other day as I was working in my workroom my hands are beginning to show their age. I knew this day would come...many have told me it would. But I didn't really think I'd see the wear and tear so soon. There is a scar from my very first iron burn. It happened when I was about 12 years old. I wasn't even allowed to use the iron then, but I did any way...couldn't wait to grow up and iron clothes. (Little did I know I'd grow up and iron every day)

Then there is the glue that gets stuck under my finger nails from various window treatment projects and the latest war wound....I was gathering sticks in the back yard for an afternoon fire recently (shouldn't I be cleaning the yard for spring instead?) and a pointy stick got me good right on my knuckle. That scab is really pretty.

I used to take pride in my hands in my early 20's. Those were the pre-kid, working in an office days. I had beautifully manicured finger nails...those perfect acrylic french manicured nails. It used to make me feel so good to have my nails done.

These days, there is little time to sit in a salon waiting to get my nails "filled". Besides...they would be foreign to me today and I'm sure they'd get in they way of my work.

Today, there are remnants of paint stuck between my nails and fingers from painting a new chalk board in the play room for my girls. My hands are dry from the cold weather, my nail polish is peeling from a bad attempt at a self-manicure last week, and there are many scars from my battles with that damn iron. Yes, my hands tell the story of my life. It is a good one, but I yern for the day when I can sit on the beach with perfectly manicured nails, a nice cold drink in one hand and a trashy book in the other.

1 comment:

  1. so funny. sounds familiar. my hands are my oldest part of my body.

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