One chore around here that I don’t mind doing is the dishes. I once read in my copy of Panati’s Extraordinary Origins Of Everyday Things — yes, I am that geeky — that when the dishwasher was first being marketed, they had trouble selling it to housewives, because the ladies actually enjoyed the quiet, meditative dishes-time at the end of the day. When I read that, I had a big Eureka! moment, in which I realised that hey, I also enjoy doing the dishes! It’s calm and restful and there are bubbles. I can daydream and ponder the day and compose blog entries in my head. Nice.

It just goes to show you that you can learn something about yourself from books. It’s rather like that time I was reading Couplehood by Paul Reiser, and he referred to his wife as being the perfect mate because she still loved him even when he was too stupid to eat. Then I was all, Eureka! Sometimes I am bitchy because I am hungry! And I am too stupid to eat!

Thus, Paul Reiser saved my marriage. Suck on that, Dr. Phil.

Incidently, they managed to successfully sell the dishwasher in the end by advertising it as being more sanitary. Which is probably bull, but since I don’t plan on giving up the dishwasher or anything, it’s a nice thing to think.

What was I saying? Ah yes, I don’t mind doing dishes. One thing I do dislike, though, is wearing rubber gloves. I absolutely have to wear the gloves all fall, winter, and spring, otherwise the tips of my fingers will crack due to the water exposure in such a dry environment. And the cracked fingers — which, incidentally, are just as gross and horrifying as you might imagine — hurt like a puppylover. So I wear the gloves.

Come summertime, though, it’s a glove-free zone in the kitchen and I am embarrassingly gleeful about it. Here is the life of the stay-at-home-mom — happiness is found in the non-wearing of rubber gloves. It’s cute how small my life is, don’t you think?

Anyway, this morning as I was doing an enormous amount of dishes — don’t tell my mother, but I didn’t do the dishes ALL WEEKEND LONG, we are immersed in filth over here — my glove-free hands got pretty wrinkly and dry. I had a really good look at them and I noticed something — I’m getting old lady hands. I still feel pretty young overall, grey hairs notwithstanding, but there’s no denying that my hands look fundamentally different than they did even a few short years ago. I can’t really put my finger on it (ha!)…they’re just sort of…bonier? veinier? wrinklier, even when not wet? In any case, they’re older.

Usually when I notice that some part of my body just isn’t what it used to be, I get all freaked out and whiny. I think I’m okay with the hands aging, though. They are starting to remind me of my mother’s hands, and my grandmother’s hands, and that makes me feel wise, and powerful, and connected to the women in my family in a strong and loving way. I see history in my hands; I see the love I have for my kids in my hands; I see the wisdom that many years of experience have wrought in my hands.

Also, I see the joy of not wearing rubber gloves in my hands. Summertime is good time.