oh the conundrum!

i have memories of my mom urging me, even in my earliest adolescence, to don moisturizer and battle those pesky signs of aging. i remember my haughty disdain for the animal-tested ridiculousness of it all. "i hope," i remember saying, "that by the time i start to wrinkle, i'll have long gone beyond all that superficial bullshit."

and oh - i still believe this. whole-heartedly. and for the most part, i really don't give a fuck.

but...

the other night i looked down at my dry hands and realized they are most definitely in their earliest proto-phases of becoming my grandfather's hands. i don't remember very much about my grandfather, but i remember we didn't really get along. and i remember this one discussion we had when i was about 12. we were talking about vigilantes, and he began to rant. he was in general a very pompous man, and this was never more obvious then when he rode his moral high horse. i spoke of social inequity, and how the police did not, in fact, serve all equally. (how did i know that already?) and though i didn't have the words to identify it, i rebelled against his right-wing blindness. he spoke upper-middle faith, and i just spoke out.

and, well... i do not want this man's hands.

oh the conundrum!