I read somewhere that the best way to tell a person’s true age is to look at their hands. Thanks to the intersection of our vanity with innovations in technology and medicine, it’s now possible to camouflage signs of age in the body, face, hair, and teeth. But as far as I know, not much can be done about wrinkled, mottled, vein—y hands.
Hands may just be the real Picture of Dorian Grey.
According to my hands, I am roughly 102 years old. I imagine that if, somehow, Mt. Mansfield were to erupt today, and my body was preserved, Pompeii-style, in ash, the future archaeologists who unearthed me would say: “Well, according to the hands on this one, she lived a long, hard life. It also appears that, at some point, she was attacked at high speeds by a stack of crisp paper, and she defended herself using only her hands.”
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