Wrinkles. I haz them. In fact, I think I started getting some faint lines on my forehead in my mid-20s. But I didn't really notice them because well, not many young women are thinking about aging in their mid-20s. At least they weren't a decade ago when I was in the last throes of youth... But turning 30 was like some kind of mind warp.
The day after my 30th birthday, I started inspecting every pore, every line, every little imperfection with a magnifying mirror. (Which, by the way? Don't. Just don't. Trust me. Don't do it. Throw out your magnifying mirror right now. They are the work of the devil. There is no use for them whatsoever.) All the sudden, it seemed my forehead looked like Gordon Ramsay's. The lines seemed to have deepened substantially overnight. It was official. I was now obsessed with every anti-aging product on the market. I was obsessed with my wrinkles and ways to obliterate them.
And it seemed that was round about the time that Botox started becoming very very popular. It wasn't just something Hollywood stars did in a plastic surgeon's office that had a backdoor exit so they could avoid the paparazzi. Everybody was doing it. Housewives, soccer moms, the girl in the cubicle next to you, the guy in the cubicle next to you... And they were talking about it. It wasn't a secret. People were throwing Botox parties for crying out loud!
And I wanted in. My lines became my enemy. They were all I could see when I looked in the mirror. I spent way too much time contorting my face to see which expression I made that was causing them. I spent way too much time tugging at my hairline to try and see what I would look like with a little Botox.
Jason was supportive. He would say what every wife wants to hear. "You're beautiful to me but if it will make you feel better about yourself, then do it."
But I just never got around to it. Maybe because of my fear of needles. Maybe because I kept spending my money of bags and shoes. Maybe a little bit of both.
And now, I'm glad I never got around to it. I turned a corner. I came across some pictures of Audrey Hepburn and she, as always, looked stunning. And her face was covered in lines.
See? It's possible to grow old naturally and gracefully. Of course, it helps if you start out looking like Audrey Hepburn...but still.
Yes, I'm still fighting mother nature and father time with every other weapon at my disposal. I recently started seeing an amazing esthetician and I get facials and peels and microdermabrasion and slather pharmaceutical-grade products on my face with a vengeance.
But whenever I see someone my age or older with a beautifully smooth forehead and I get tempted, I try to think to myself "What would Audrey do?" We can't know for sure, but I believe if Audrey were with us today, she would resist Botox.
So I'm trying with all of my might to embrace the lines on my face. In addition to my WWAD? religion, I've adopted a No-tox anthem of sorts. The opening lines of The Story by Brandi Carlile keep me strong in times of weakness:
All of these lines across my facetell you the story of who I amSo many stories of where I've beenand how I got to where I am
I don't know how my story will end, but I hope...when all is said and done...my face tells a damn good one. I hope it tells you about all the times I laughed till I cried. I hope it tells you about all the times I cried till somebody made me laugh. I hope it tells you about every triumph, every frustration, every joy, every pain, every win, every loss.
(But I hope it leaves out that one time, my freshman year of college when I....um, nevermind.)