Old Man Hands
My 35th birthday is rapidly approaching, and I'm beginning to wonder when the other shoe will drop. I mean, I'm in the prime of my life. I'm a kick-butt mountain biker. I'm about to join a triathlon training group. I have inscrutable eating habits that enhance my physique. While others around me are losing the Battle of the Bulge (actually, more like the Droop Over the Dockers), my waistline is shrinking. I even know how to buy pants. In short, boys, I'm a Darn Good Catch.
But in spite of all my boundless energy and charming good looks, I'm worried that some day it all will end. That the radiantly handsome man you see before you will in the not so distant future turn into a half-senile old coot who spends his days trying to run down neighborhood pets on his Lark.
I mean, how does that happen? I don't think that I look significantly older today than I did six years ago. Sure, I now have a hint of gray around the temples, but that only highlights how distinguished I look. And I've got disturbing patches of chin fuzz popping up all over my body. But I prefer to think of that as a second puberty, except this time it's happening on my shoulders.
So I've been scouring my body for signs of impending decrepitude. And I think I may have found my Achilles heel (or should I say, "Achilles palm"). That's right: Old Man Hands.
I worry that my hands have lost their luster, that the years of joy and success have imprinted laugh lines on my once-smooth hands. And that's just not acceptable. If I'm going to have Old Man Hands, I want them to look like I've spent a lifetime rassling dogies rather than a lifetime of rassling databases and cranky end users.
But who am I kidding? My hands are fine. I just like to wash them a lot, that's all. Did you know that taking public transportation is a risk factor in contracting tuberculosis? And as a radiantly handsome person, I don't have no time to be catchin' bugs from no scrubs.
You know what I'm saying?
But in spite of all my boundless energy and charming good looks, I'm worried that some day it all will end. That the radiantly handsome man you see before you will in the not so distant future turn into a half-senile old coot who spends his days trying to run down neighborhood pets on his Lark.
I mean, how does that happen? I don't think that I look significantly older today than I did six years ago. Sure, I now have a hint of gray around the temples, but that only highlights how distinguished I look. And I've got disturbing patches of chin fuzz popping up all over my body. But I prefer to think of that as a second puberty, except this time it's happening on my shoulders.
So I've been scouring my body for signs of impending decrepitude. And I think I may have found my Achilles heel (or should I say, "Achilles palm"). That's right: Old Man Hands.
I worry that my hands have lost their luster, that the years of joy and success have imprinted laugh lines on my once-smooth hands. And that's just not acceptable. If I'm going to have Old Man Hands, I want them to look like I've spent a lifetime rassling dogies rather than a lifetime of rassling databases and cranky end users.
But who am I kidding? My hands are fine. I just like to wash them a lot, that's all. Did you know that taking public transportation is a risk factor in contracting tuberculosis? And as a radiantly handsome person, I don't have no time to be catchin' bugs from no scrubs.
You know what I'm saying?
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