Your hands get old first.

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Your face and your neck can be okay. Your tummy can be flat, or flattish, and you don’t have to look at your own butt. You might not be bald yet. But the hands. You see them every day. And they keep getting more gnarly. Turning slowly into claws. How you know you’re getting up on seventy. How you know you’re old.

But guess what. They’re your hands. Knuckles have been sprained, digits have been broken. They did the hard work, the punches, the caresses, the good and the bad. They’ve done amazing things for you. Been everywhere, explored everything, felt everything with the most exquisite touch, hard and soft and hot and wet. No wonder they get old. It’s okay. They’re yours. Don’t sweat it.

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