Skin Like a Sausage

They say beauty is only skin deep. Bastards, whoever said that. These days my formerly translucent"lovely complexion" has worn itself down to the transparency of sausage skin, without the essential properties of tension, shall we say. Every single vein and its offspring, those tiny purple frizzy things like mooshed up cobwebs, miles of them, has decided its moment to shine has arrived. So there they are the little buggers, in full blue bloom. On my temples, throat, arms, legs, wrists, ankles. The tops of my feet and the backs of my hands are particularly resplendant. Worthy of a seasonal "color viewing" tour by visiting alien observers of human anatomy. Add to that the fact that I have the Celtic aversion to suntan, born actually of a genetic flaw, carrot top that I am, my legs now have the marbled attraction of sculpted Danish blue cheese. It's just not fair. Well, it only happens if you ARE fair, fair-skinned at least.
The skin on the back of my hands was the first to go, at least that I noticed because of being plainly visible on the steering wheel one day decades ago, riding with my former landlady, a Persian beauty and cosmetologist who actually shrieked when she saw them. "But darling, you HAVE to use your hand cream. Let me give you something special". She was always palming off something special and laughably expensive, made in exotic places like the Dead Sea. You'd think the word Dead would be offputting for skin products, but apparently not enough. Anyhow, I'd apply the latest lotions and potions that immediately washed off the next time I did dishes or cooked which I dutifully did, actually, three times a day. She admonished me to wear rubber gloves but they always got too sweaty inside or were leaky from knife nicks so I gave them up years ago.
Last night I was reading innocently in bed and moved my bare arm up and behind my head for a moment to adjust my pillow. That's when I noticed the lines. I blinked hard, thinking it couldn't be possible that skin on the inside of my forearms had turned into the flabby consistency of too-soft pastry dough and was draped neatly in delicate diagonal furrows. This might be viewed as artistically interesting if the fabric were georgette silk rather than human flesh. I experimented with the different angles of furrows, turning my hands and arms this and that way.
"What are you doing?" grunted Larry. "It's 11:30". "Sorry sweetie" I whispered and stuck my hand behind my head, guiltily. "Just finishing this chapter," and rustled the pages of my paperback to distract him.
I must say I'm disappointed. My mother's skin didn't turn on her like that. Mind you, I'm not sure one's eyes view mother and self through the same lens, so that's not a reliable observation perhaps.
So, ok, these days, the backs of my hands resemble relief maps of hilly regions snaked with rivers, blue rivers. The only consolation to me at this stage if that this proves something I've always suspected. I have done more cooking and dishes than my mother ever did ! And if it's also true that you are what you eat, then ok, I regret eating so many sausages(with skin) and blue cheese.