They say you can tell a woman's age by looking at her hands. Which puts me at about one hundred! Let's just say that my hands will never be models for a sculpture, unless it's outside a nursing home.
One of my granddaughters once asked me why I had blue worms on the backs of my hands. The veins are raised and twisted, in-between the now protruding knuckles. I gave her a lengthy explanation of what veins do, and told her she had them in her hands, too. Only problem was, we couldn't find them!
When I go for blood work, the lab nurse never fails to exclaim, "Oh, these are beautiful!" I look at her like she's not operating with a full deck. Then she explains that I'll never be traumatized by having a succession of needles poked into my hands (or forearms) trying to find a vein. And that if one collapses, I'll have plenty of others to choose from. That's supposed to make me feel better??
There are operations where plastic surgeons inject YOUR OWN fat into your hands to plump them up. The operation is a mere $5,000/hand. But then, I do have saddlebags I'd like to get rid of!
Almost as offensive as the veins are the small round bruises. I am not even aware of doing it, but if either hand bumps against something, a small purple mushroom appears. My mother used to call them "age" or "liver" spots. She got them from the Coumadin she took to thin her blood, then from the aspirin regimen that replaced the Coumadin. Since I take neither, I couldn't figure out why my hands always looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Then I realized it's probably from the fish oil I take to lower cholesterol and keep joints functioning. At least if I bend down for a low tennis shot, I know I'll be able to get up again. I guess I'll have to live with the purple mushrooms.
Tonight my right hand sports a new cut across the middle finger. That's from scraping it on the door latch of my locker, while storing my golf bag. So in addition to the blue worms and purple mushrooms, I have a red badge of courage. The courage was just for going out on a golf course!
And then there's the lump and blue/black bruise on my shin. I know, I'm digressing from the hands, but it's the same beat-up body. In a match I whacked myself with my tennis racket, as I followed through with my serving motion. An ugly hematoma appeared instantly, and my opponents were gracious enough to let me sit with an ice pack for ten minutes so I could elevate the leg. The lump is gone, but the blue/black three-inch bruise remains. You can actually see the indentation of the racket against my shin. At least I didn't cut myself, as our captain did in the same match and in the same location!
I guess I could sit at the computer all day, or on the sofa. But that still doesn't solve the problem of my worms.