Sometimes, when I look at my hands in the right light, resting, say, on my knees or on a table, palms down, I see my age there. The size, the criss-cross of tiny lines and the little scars and the color.
Other than that, even with all the gray in my travel-long beard, I don’t often see my age. I don’t feel particularly old, so maybe the feeling overrides the seeing. I mean, we’ve got an almost-teenager and will be married twenty years this year and are currently mired in a “midlife opportunity,” but I still don’t feel old.
But my hands are where I see it, don’t know why.
We’re halfway through this week, almost over the hump of our year on the road. I already wish we had longer. Did the first rough planning of where we’ll be when on the back half, but am purposely keeping it loose and open to serendipity.
Let’s get moving. Peace.