My Old Hands

I can remember, many years ago, thinking that I should take on a project when I was in my late teens.

I can remember thinking: wouldn't it be interesting to take a photograph of my face on my birthday on each successive year. I forgot about that thought, shunted it aside. I wish I'd taken myself up on that offer. I could have documented something that is, heretofore, undocumented.

Have you ever wanted to do something, like that, whilst you were young?

And then realized: it's too late?

I looked at my hands the other day.

They are, plain and simply: old. Wrinkled, puffy and unappealing.


I can recall, in the early 90s, Rick Taylor saying this to me: hold your hand loose, then pinch the back of your hand. If it's unaffected, you're young. If it takes a few seconds to recede, then you're old.

I am way old now. It takes damned near a month for my skin to recede when pinched.

However, I should care to point out that I am not sufficiently old to forget how to grip my Sig-Sauer P220 .45 cal handgun with its requisite Euro release and, as the photo indicates, a few extra magazines.


Just a reminder. To my government.

I'm old.

But not quite dead yet.

BZ