She looked at her hands for what seemed like the first time in decades. What she saw shook her mental framework. She had been functioning in the same thought bubble and personality framed by her youth. It’s true that she had begun to notice that her fraction-of-a-second assessments of the before-and-after ramifications of a single reaching movement were not spot on anymore. The monthly visits to the massage therapist and chiropractor should have been one of a long line of clues she shouldn’t have missed. But her hands spoke loud rays of stinging images at this moment as she balked at their leathery creases; and for Heaven’s sake where did all the excess skin come from.
For a moment she imagined that some alien abduction had occurred and a foreign plastic surgeon had switched her hands with those of another abductee to observe how these earthlings used such strange appendages. She had to get her own hands back! How would she pull off this ”funny story” among friends? She’d always been careful to call attention immediately to her most despicable attributes in a social setting. Get them out of the way and strategically shut down any exterior comments about them by making fun of them herself. Once disposed of in this way, she was free to fake that wonderful confidence and cleverness that everyone seemed to believe she had. These damn hands were going to be the social death of her! Bastard aliens!