|Photo credit: K. Kendall|
(Okay, maybe not that last one.)
The woman giving me a facial was nice enough about it (as not all Bliss estheticians are), but I succumbed to panic and despair as she pointed out the increasingly evident signs of my aging.
The truth is, I'd noticed recently that I was looking, well, older. I had written it hopefully off as simply the fatigue that hovers around new mothers like a nerdy, annoying younger cousin.
Clogged pores? That's easy to explain: I constantly have little oatmeal-covered hands grabbing my face, not to mention a little oatmeal-covered mouth biting my cheeks.
Dry cheeks? No surprise there: I'm completely dehydrated. Can never seem to drink enough.
But clogged pores and dry cheeks are one thing; losing elasticity in your skin is quite another. It has nothing to do with oatmeal hands and everything to do with aging.
The extra weight, the slight paunch of my belly, the thinning of my increasingly gray hair, the deepening laugh lines and crows feet, the yellowing teeth... they all combine to make me despise reflective surfaces.
Henry will never know me as a young woman, the way I knew my own mother. Thank goodness for small miracles, I suppose. I'd like to believe he will benefit from having a mom who has come into her own in a way the disastrous tangle of youthful arrogance and hopeless self-loathing -- aka, my 25-year-old self -- had not yet done.
I have an idea. Could I look and feel (physically) like I did when I was 25 yet benefit from the almost 15 years of experience I've garnered since then?
Pretty please with a cherry on top?
Okay, then. I guess I will start using toner and glycolic acid exfoliating pads and all that jazz. Maybe some more sit-ups, too. Yeah, that should do it.
I had to ditch my terrible commenting system, but I didn't want to lose the comments, so here they are: