I was driving to the store the other day and I happened to look down at my hand.
I was appalled.
So appalled, in fact, that I took a picture.
When did I get so old? When did I get those ugly brownish spots on m/y previously pretty hands? Why didn’t anyone tell me that 38 was going to be the year when, all of a sudden, age would creep up on me and make me look like an old lady?
I was crushed.
Honestly, while I’m not opposed to aging, I’ve been told I have lovely hands for my whole entire life and the thought that they were now covered with age spots made me sad.
I lifted one closer to my face to examine the blasted marks.
And smelled peanut butter.
I sniffed again. Licked. And looked down.
Apparently, my friends, my hands are not the age-related problem I should be worried about.
It seems it’s my memory that’s failing me as I had somehow forgotten that about the peanut butter bars I had baked not an hour beforehand hand.
Ah, getting older…
it’s a …
Well, you know.