Sometimes I feel so young I need to do a search of my body to prove I’m approaching 75 years of age.
My search doesn’t take a long time.
Typically, I first look down at my hands. They are a palm reader’s dream come true – so many deep canyons to explore. My fingers look like little dessert bars that were forgotten in a cabinet years ago. I flip to the back of my hands to discover these blue veins that pop up when I make a fist. If I squint just right, the knuckle of my middle finger resembles the face of the old cartoon character Mr. Magoo.
My search goes from my hands to my feet. I don’t expect much, because my feet have never been a game changer for me. That’s why I always wear socks. My little toes have never touched the ground, but now I think they wish to express themselves by climbing on top of the next toe. They look like bunk beds for tiny pink piglets.
I’ll spare you and stop reporting on my search.
The weird thing is, after all that visual evidence, my silly head keeps telling me I’m still so young.