Every now and again I look down as I'm typing and I don't recognize my own hands.

I'm familiar with the tiny scar on the knuckle of my right ring finger, an accident from a summer job in my teenage years that could have been so much worse. You can barely see it now it's blended in with the folds of the skin.

I recognize the shapes of the fingertips; as I obsessively check them for curves and bulges that come with age. Was that always like that, I wonder? And then admit that it must have been.

There are now veins where I wanted them to be ... way back when I thought pronounced lines would make my hands look strong; less like they belonged on a portrait from the Middle Ages.

Now they are middled aged.

The skin of my hands is dryer; little lines more pronounced even as the overall appearance seems shiny under the right light. An odd combination.

They are showing their age; possibly moreso than even my face.

Sometimes I forget I'm not 20 ... until I look in the mirror.

And I remember.