“Gaudy” is Such a Cool Word.

Honestly, my hands, until very recently, are the only part of me that really look my age (see previous post) and I find myself constantly staring at them.  (Well, except for that wrinkle right above my nose-also, a gift from my mother- but that goes away with strategically placed hair.) Over the years,  I’ve grown to like the fact that people have often mistaken me for someone quite a bit younger. (It’s Karma, damn it! All the boys my age wanted to date my younger, older-looking, sister. <sniff, sob!> ) But, I am beginning to wonder if soon I will begin hiding my hands whenever I meet people. ( “Good to meet you, yes, I’d shake your hand but I have none.  I woke up one morning and mine had fallen off-they were just lying there by the bed, still clutching the dark chocolate and the wine glass from the night before….”)

In fact, I was holding my kid’s head the other day while the hairstylist buzzed his hair (yes, I held him down-if that kid doesn’t drag me onto Jerry Springer one day, I’ll be shocked, but those are stories for another day) and I couldn’t help but notice her hands. They were the smooth, young hands of someone who was barely into their 20s, a young, virile someone. Someone who, honestly, probably hasn’t discovered the joys of great sex yet, whose present friends will probably not be the same ones who throw her the 40th surprise party and who spends most of her time inside playing Wii Fit and  protecting the comfort of her youth from the horrors of growing old,  the horrors of growing into someone more like me.  I looked at my freckled, tough hands with the worn down nails and knew that I wouldn’t trade with her.

 Not for anything.

And, 

that  I want a LARGE, gaudy, pink, rose-covered cake for my surprise party

… so spread the word.

"Live with intention. 

Walk to the edge. 

Listen hard. 

Practice wellness. 

Play with abandon. 

Laugh. 

Choose with no regret. 

Do what you love. 

Live as if this is all there is." 

~ Mary Anne Radmacher-Hershey