An Open Book

I ran into a friend at the salon the other day and she mentioned to the hair colorist we share that my life is an “open book.” I laughed and agreed, but when I thought about it a bit later…I realized, it’s really not completely open. Yes, I share the difficulties of parenting children battling mental illness and disordered eating (really two sides of the same coin), but I haven’t been completely open about myself, and my own battles with anxiety. I know, I’ve shared my eating disorder battle in Hungry. But, I have never owned this truth…

After my youngest son, Aidan’s, therapy session several months ago, his therapist asked to speak with me alone for a moment. As she closed the door, I thought perhaps she would offer some insight into Aidan that she didn’t feel he was ready to hear…instead, she offered insight into me. She is the sweetest person and hesitated for a moment before speaking. When she did, she spoke quietly. “I believe you have OCD, as well. I’ll try to treat you both, because it will help him too.” I breathed out a sigh of relief. That was all? I had known that for almost a decade. When my middle son, Joshua was diagnosed at the age of eight, I finally had a name for my own torment.

It started when I was twenty-seven years old, right after I had an anaphylactic reaction to an antibiotic. It felt like my brain chemistry changed, leaving me with waves of dizziness and anxiety while I sat at my desk at work. Some of that could be attributed to the sulfite allergy I developed after the anaphylactic reaction (and the sulfite-laden tuna or turkey sandwich I would down at lunch, but I can clearly remember my first actual obsessive compulsive moment (for me, it was only the obsessive part, a subset of OCD).

I was waiting for my then-boyfriend (future husband), Jeff, to come out of a rest stop on our way from Boston to visit my family on Long Island. I remember thinking, If I drive away, he’ll be stuck here at a rest stop in Connecticut. For some reason, the fact that I even thought that completely freaked me out. It didn’t matter that I would never act on it…I knew that I must be a horrible person. Why would I even entertain the though of leaving my boyfriend, whom I loved, in Connecticut? It never crossed my mind that thoughts like that flit through people’s heads all the time, but it doesn’t mean that they’ll follow through on it…nor did it mean that I would either. It never even occurred to me that perhaps the reason that popped into my head was that it seemed to me that he was dragging his feet to get engaged after we had been together for over two years already (and I knew my mom would ask me if he was going to “shit or get off the pot” when we arrived for our visit).

That one episode snowballed into continuing invasive thoughts and worries for the next four or five months. I’d have panic attacks, worrying that I was a bad person. I’d feel like I was living my life in a fog. I went back to my therapist from a few years earlier when I was battling the eating disorder, and she told me that I was simply giving my thoughts too much power. I knew she was right. And then…it all disappeared. Around the time we got engaged (not a coincidence, I’m sure), the fear and crazy thoughts just evaporated. I felt myself again. I relished planning my wedding and honeymoon. Four months before our wedding we moved into a charming apartment in a hundred year old house, with a window seat, front porch and fire place with beautiful mantle…all the things I dreamed of in a first home. I was happy.

At my wedding, though I had chest pains and was short of breath while dancing the hora. I panicked that I’d have a heart attack at my wedding (now I know that it was an asthma attack). On my honeymoon I got stabbed by a cactus, and my leg swelled up. I was sure that it was poisonous. My health worries took over my worries that I was a psycho. The background to that: my sister fell ill on her honeymoon and ended up having heart and brain surgery not long after. I’m sure subconsciously, I thought of that. But, here’s the thing – the health worries weren’t so bad, because they made me realize how much I appreciated everything I had. You only worry about losing what’s important when you have something important to lose.

There were even times that I’d be out, and I’d pay attention to where the nearest hospital was, in case I needed to be rushed there. And here’s the background on that: I did have to get rushed to the hospital not long after we returned from our honeymoon, because I didn’t eat enough during the day, and fainted while waiting for a table at a restaurant. I had an inner ear infection, almost constant vertigo, and couldn’t bring myself to eat. Even after that cleared up (6 weeks later), I still felt very sick.

Looking back on that time, I understand why I felt like that – it was one part psychological yes, but it was also a big part physical. My sister had been diagnosed with cancer (psychological), and there was a tiny gas leak in my apartment from the stove the entire year we lived there (physical). We found out the day we moved out. It wasn’t enough to kill us, and my husband wasn’t affected at all, but it was enough to plague me with headaches, dizziness and fatigue. I weighed about ninety pounds, which didn’t help matters at all.  I still remember a lot of happy moments, though.

And moving out of that beloved apartment (gas leak and all), actually ushered in a new stretch of bliss. I felt better, even though I had a car accident that left me with neck pain and forced me to quit a job I loved. I got pregnant, and I LOVED it. I did not have anxiety. I relished every moment. My next pregnancy was plagued by anxiety and to this day, I wonder if that’s why my oldest does not battle mental illness, but his brothers do – the cortisol coursing through my veins and into the placentas of his younger brothers leaving them with lifelong issues.

The next two decades unspooled with moments of joy and moments of darkness. I have risen above anxiety, and I have let it cripple me in my head…though outwardly, I don’t think anyone could tell (aside from a trained professional, like my son’s therapist). The OCD (or rather “Pure O”) has reared its ugly head in various forms. It was worse post-partum, especially whenever I dropped a feeding. I could go into all the details, but that would entail thousands and thousands of words…that may work for a book, but not a blog post. When I started taking inhaled steroids for asthma, it spiked again. I have tapered myself down to every other day, against the advice of my asthma doctor, simply to save my sanity.

So, what type of OCD do I have now? Well, there’s the one that led my son’s therapist to diagnose me…I don’t eat without cleaning my hands, and I always have hand sanitizer with me. That habit started when I was thirty-five, and had a seemingly endless case of strep. My doctor told me that I must never eat without cleaning my hands, after I admitted that a week before getting sick I ate a slice of pizza at a gymnastics birthday party and did not wash my hands first. He said, “All you need is to do that once and a week later, you’ll have strep.” Then he suggested I get my tonsils out. No, thank you…hand sanitizer became my constant companion. I also wash my hands for twenty to thirty seconds when I’m home before I eat or unload the dishwasher. But, to be honest, while that may annoy others (like my husband), it doesn’t really affect me that much.

The one that affects me the most is probably what I call “clothing OCD” (and no, I don’t think that’s an official term…it’s probably a subset of “just right” OCD). I often feel as if I’m wearing the wrong thing (and therefore, people may judge me). I have had that worry for as long as I remember, but it was not as overwhelming as it is now…and I blame that on social media. Usually, I feel okay in what I’m wearing until later on when I look at photos and decide I look “hippy” (as in wide hips, not as in a flower-child…); or maybe my hair is a mess; or perhaps my shirt is bunched up in a weird way.

Sometimes, I’ll realize in looking at photos that my cleavage was a bit too, um…cleavagey (not a word, I know). I’m very short and wear a D or DD, everything that fits in the chest ends up being low-cut. I try to fix it by wearing camisoles under everything to cover up what a low neckline doesn’t, but sometimes they slip down, and I don’t realize until I look at a photo. If it’s a date night, I don’t really care, but if it’s a school event that I looked busty at…let’s just say I’ll be wracked by anxiety that I looked like a fifty-one year old tart. Not very becoming…

Sometimes, my anxiety comes from my feeling under-dressed for an event or even over-dressed. I tell myself that blending in means that my unique self will never shine, but OCD (or maybe it’s more social anxiety) doesn’t care. For instance, the last night of a work trip with my husband in the Bahamas there was an awards banquet. I had one outfit left – two skinny ribbed tanks layered (black over white), a silky, black wrap miniskirt with a white blooms splashed across it and a three-quarter sleeve plain, black bolero sweater. I wore black and gold interwoven flat sandals to finish the outfit (because I can’t wear heels). Sounds pretty cute, right? Only, I was horrified when I showed up and most of the women were in gowns or at least cocktail dresses. The dress code for evening events was listed as resort casual. Where gowns fit in a resort casual dress code, I have no idea. That didn’t make it better.

I still remember the outfit, because I while I had fun that night (Matchbox Twenty was the entertainment for the private concert…of course I had a blast), afterward I ruminated over what people must have thought of me dressing so casually. (No one probably thought twice – they were all too busy having fun.) The next day I bought a pretty, floral, strapless maxi dress on the beach before we left and wished that I had seen it the day before. I came home and a few days later bought a beautiful, pink silk wrap dress on sale and wondered why I didn’t hit the store I found it at before taking off for the beach.

And this is the crux of my “clothing OCD” and what separates it from the run of the mill anxiety many people have about how they look in photos on social media. (Who hasn’t been quick to click “untag,” praying none of your friends have seen a post yet, upon discovering an unflattering photo in which you’re tagged? I would guess only people without social media or those with amazing self-confidence, whom I admire more than I can say…) I ruminate. I think about what else I could have worn that would have looked better. I zoom in on photos of myself, picking apart my appearance.

This is not normal, and I’m not proud of it. It’s especially not normal, because I weigh less than one hundred pounds. Or at least I do again now. Over the winter I put on some weight after fracturing both feet a few months apart (I’m still in a surgical shoe after stepping down from a boot) and having complications after surgery that left me prone on the couch for weeks. (In the past month I have discovered health conditions that led to both of those things, but that’s another blog post…)

During that time, I was hypercritical of my appearance in Facebook photos that others posted of me. I was sure I looked fat. Mind you, I gained five pounds and weighed about one hundred and two to one hundred and three pounds in most of them. Typing this out, I know how stupid it sounds. But, five pounds when you’re not even five feet tall feels like a lot. And, I’m ashamed to admit this, but lately I have found myself thinking, I’ve been under a ton of stress, but at least I’m back to my regular weight. Again, not normal.

My son, Joshua, who has spent a lot of time in eating disorder programs, both residential and outpatient of varying degrees, told me that I sound anorexic or at least like I have body dysmorphic disorder. To which he adds that “All girls are like that.” I don’t disagree with him about myself. I know I’m not anorexic at all. I don’t limit my calorie intake, that’s not how I lost weight. I just don’t have as much of an appetite when I’m stressed, so I naturally lose weight. I eat a Greek yogurt or a bowl of cereal for dinner a few nights a week when I make my kids something that I don’t like or can’t eat due to allergies. I’m not starving myself. I’ll still eat ice cream, but maybe just a spoonful or two on a graham cracker sandwich, rather than a half cup, when I’m stressed. I’ve also been going up an down my stairs A LOT, trying to catch up on the laundry that swelled during my injuries and post-surgery rest.

The body dysmorphic thing…that’s probably true. I tried on a dress while shopping with my mom. I told her it made me look “hippy.” She told me I was crazy and should buy it. So, I did. I figure that’s a step in the right direction. If I can wear it and not zoom in on a photo of myself and decide that she was wrong…now, that will be a victory.

We all have something…and I decided that it was not fair for me to share my kids’ issues and not my own, simply because it’s scary peering into the dark corners of your psyche and then spilling out what you find onto the page for everyone to read. But, if I’m going to wear the mantle of being an “open book” as a writer and a person…I need to earn it.

 

Postscript: It took me about four days to write this. A big part of that was a health crisis my son has been having that I’ve been focused on, but when he’s been out, I’ve been working on it, and it still took me a long time…I’ll admit it’s nerve wracking to post it, now that it’s finally done. But, if you’re reading this, I got over that and hit “publish.” Thank you for taking the time to read this longer than usual essay…

 

 

 

Au Naturel

I’m taking a break from my usual introspective posts about the sometimes bittersweet journey of parenting; the sometimes arduous task of raising a child battling obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD); the sometimes anxiety-riddled existence of not knowing if I have a hereditary cancer disorder; and of course my love of the New York Rangers and all things hockey to speak for a moment about something that might seem a bit more shallow – skin care.

I have written about looks before – in both Skin Deep and The Mirror – but, that wasn’t about actual skin care, really. It was more about my views on aging and what I would or wouldn’t do to try to stall the process. And, how hard it can be as we get deeper into middle age to reconcile the young person inside and the older person staring out from the mirror. (Though, I have to admit – I got carded in NYC last week and it made me so happy. I asked the bouncer, incredulously, are you carding me for my age? Because if you are, I love you – I’m old!)

This is just about actual skin care and my quest to find products that don’t leave me covered in giant welts. Not as easy a task as it may seem. I’m writing this, because I’m sure at least some of my readers have searched for natural skin and hair care products too. (If you don’t wish to read what spurred this quest and just want to know the solutions I found, scroll down past the next few paragraphs.)

It all began last May, specifically May 7, 2014. My husband colored my hair for me – as he had been doing for over a decade. But, the burning and itchiness that I always felt was the price of beauty suddenly felt like someone was slicing my scalp with razor blades. It was, quite frankly, unbearable. But, I felt I had no choice. That Feria “Espresso” needed to sit slathered on my head long enough to get rid of the pesky grays that were far too numerous for me to pluck (and yet not numerous enough to give me a gorgeous silver hue). You see, my son’s Bar Mitzvah was a mere ten days away. Temple photos were just a week away.

I know people who have gone a striking silver and look beautiful. My friend, Debbie, has sparkly blue eyes and a lush silver mane that she wears in a stylish up-do in her simply stunning author photos. She looks gorgeous and I’m more than a tad envious. I also know people with salt and pepper who look just lovely with silver strands interwoven. But, I just look washed out when the grays start growing in. So, I sat with that torturous mix of harsh chemicals on my head for the full twenty-five minutes and within an hour I had hives on my neck and one cheek looked like I had been slapped by the hand of a giant. By the morning both cheeks were bright red – my son said I resembled a Disney character with apple red cheeks drawn on.

The allergist confirmed that I had an allergic reaction to the hair color. He gave me a steroid cream, told me to continue taking Benadryl (a children’s dose of which knocks me out cold) and informed me that I could get much worse over the next forty-eight hours. “You could wake up tomorrow looking like you have chemical burns covering your body,” he warned me.

Thankfully, the Benadryl and steroid worked their magic and I was just left with a small red circle on one cheek. But, I suddenly became allergic to everything. Really – everything I put on my skin engendered a vicious reaction. To make a long story short, after seeing my allergist, internist and two dermatologists, no one could tell me what I’m allergic to, so I cut out all chemicals. After trial and error, I found an amazing skin and hair care line – Shea Moisture. I now use their body wash (the Argan Oil & Raw Shea smells so yummy – like chocolate), shampoo, conditioner and Coconut and Hibiscus Curl Milk. It’s sold at Target, CVS, etc. And, I can still use Origins, thankfully. I’ve used their skin care for twenty years and love it.

But, my secret weapon is Trader Joe’s Organic Virgin Coconut Oil. I slather it on my face, hair and hands. I mix it with oatmeal for a homemade scrub. It can get a little messy, but it’s so worth it. People are always asking me what I do to keep my skin looking young – Origins and coconut oil are my staples. I’m not sharing this to sound arrogant. In fact, I thought twice about even writing that last sentence. But, people do ask me often (see getting carded above) and they really do seem surprised that such a simple item can do so much. I also feed it to my dogs. After they’d always lick it off every time I rubbed it on my legs in the summer, I Googled it to see if it’s safe for them. Not only is it safe, it’s wonderful for them.

And, if you’re wondering about my hair color – I’m able to get foil highlights. So, now I’m blonde. It’s odd to think I’ll never be a brunette again, but I’ve gotten used to a sunnier look and the grays aren’t as noticeable when they grow in, so I can stretch coloring a bit longer. Which is good, because it certainly costs more than $7 for a box of hair color. But, if I divide it over the eleven years I spent $6 – $7 every couple of months, it’s not so bad. And, it’s certainly worth not having an allergic reaction – the price of beauty can be way too high when it comes to your health…

The Mirror

People tell me I look young – it’s my thing. I’ve looked younger than I am since I was a teenager. A thirteen year old boy asked me out on a date when I was seventeen years old. I told him that he was far too young for me (and that I had a boyfriend), but he would not give up until I produced my driver’s license. When I was thirty four years old I was at the library with my boys, two and four years old. They were, as usual, making a bit of a ruckus. When the custodian approached me, I was sure he was going to kick us out. Instead, he asked, “Are these you’re kids?” When I answered, “Yes,” rather than replying, “Well, get them out of here,” he simply said, “You look way too young to have kids that age.” I thanked him profusely, though I wasn’t quite sure if he meant it as a compliment or an accusation.

People often told me I looked too young to have kids as I tried to wrangle two toddlers and it was generally said with an air of hostility. During those moments, I realized how it must feel to be a teen mom – this was way before MTV glorified getting knocked up before the age of twenty – and it wasn’t pretty. I probably looked as if I popped out a few kids before I was even legal to drink. I even got carded going to see my husband’s band play at a huge club in Boston. I had just turned thirty years old and was pregnant enough to show, but the bouncer carded me. I may have hugged him – I can’t remember.

You might be thinking right about now, “Geez, why did I click on this? She’s just bragging for two whole paragraphs. I don’t need to hear this. I’m done.” But, wait – don’t stop reading. That was just the set-up. I promise there’s more to say that won’t make you hate me – I hope. Like this – when I turned thirty-five I decided that I looked old. I hated the parentheses lines around my mouth and a few grays had sprung up at my temples. For my thirty-fifth birthday my parents got me a gift card to a fancy salon. I used it to get blonde highlights woven through my hair. I loved the blonde, but couldn’t keep up with it – not with two little kids. Pretty soon I started looking like a reverse skunk, so I went back to brunette (from a box) and that pretty much sums up my beauty maintenance. I basically do very little and hope for the best.

I color my hair from a box still (actually, my husband does it and I have to say, he does a great job). I’ve been a bit adventurous with even the box color – like doing an ombre.  But, I recently went back to my original color (or at least a close approximation) – Feria Espresso from L’Oreal. It’s way cheaper than a salon, quicker and, most importantly, I kept having allergic reactions to salon hair color. I’m violently allergic to sulfites and I didn’t realize that hair color is chock full of sodium metabisulfite. I just chalked it up to an anxiety attack when my heart would start racing and my head would suddenly feel like everything emptied out of it, I was so dizzy. Sometimes even the box color makes me dizzy and feel like my head is on fire, but I can cut the time short and wash it out at least. I’m sharing all of this, because it leads me to my next point – I often wonder if I’m doing enough…

Now that I’m forty-six years old I wonder if it really is time to start using something more potent than Origins skin cream. I get like this every year around my birthday. In fact, writing this paragraph, I had a flashback to another post I wrote as I “skidded toward my forty-fifth birthday” last year. I revisited it and realized that it covers a lot of the same territory. This bit of writer deja-vu made me realize something – I clearly don’t follow my own advice. That essay ended with “…I think that’s the key to accepting ourselves for what we are, instead of getting depressed every time we look in the mirror – just try to see yourself as others see you. That and maybe a few blonde highlights.”

So, why do I still get depressed when I look in the mirror and realize those fine lines around my eyes aren’t going anywhere, no matter how much eye cream I glob on? Why when people say to me that I look way too young to have a sixteen year old, do I put my hands to my face and mutter self-deprecatingly, “I feel like I look old,” instead of just smiling appreciatively and expressing my gratitude without a disclaimer? Why when a security guard at the airport in February pointed to me and told my kids that their sister was waiting for them did I wonder if he needed glasses? Rereading my essay from last year, Skin Deep, I realize that this is something I’ve pondered for quite a while. Why indeed can’t I take my own advice and see others as they see me?

I explore this theme in my novel, Goddess of Suburbia. What if a regular mom with all of the body insecurities that go with the job finds that her naked form is suddenly zipping around the Internet for everyone to see? Would she die of shame or would she emerge stronger, finally able to believe it when someone tells her she’s hot? Of course, I can’t share the answer – that would ruin the book. But, it was really interesting for me to explore her psyche – because perhaps it’s a bit of a mirror to my own. (Not that I want a naked video of myself zipping around – EVER.)

Not that long ago an older woman said to me, “If I looked like you, I’d kiss the mirror every day.” I walked away from her thinking, so what’s real – what she sees or what I see? More importantly, when I’m this woman’s age, will I be beating myself up for any insecurities now? I’m pretty sure the answer to that question is, “Yes.” When I look at pictures of myself from when I first started to worry that I was looking older, I want to kick that thirty-five year old’s ass. My skin was dewy and fresh – I don’t know why I was so hard on myself. Even when I look at photos from last year, I think – well, I looked better then. This past winter was so stressful and it shows.

That’s when I start thinking about doing a little more than slathering on a rich cream every morning and every night and rubbing coconut oil into my face a couple of times a day. (I swear, it makes your skin feel amazing and smells so good!). I start thinking about how my friend told me that way more women than I thought are all using Botox and using it in their early forties. I think about all of the lip plumpers and the resurfacing lasers that women my age take advantage of. I think about eye jobs and facelifts…

But, that’s all that I do – I think about it. As much as I would love to consider these fountain of youth promises, I know that I’ll never do any of these things – not that I judge those who do. I won’t do these things, because I never put anything in my body, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Having an anaphylactic reaction to a medication can make you a bit paranoid about meds in the future and as much as anyone would like to think that Botox is not a drug, it is. According to Wikipedia, it was first used therapeutically to correct strabismus (crossed eyes), blepharospasm (uncontrollable blinking) and achalasia (a spasm of the lower esophageal sphincter). And, even though the amount used to erase wrinkles is widely considered safe, it’s still comprised of “the most lethal toxin known,” also according to Wikipedia. I just can’t see shooting that into my face, no matter how young it would make me look.

Then there are all the other injectables and procedures – maybe I’m a baby, but I just can’t bring myself to even consider anything invasive. So, I can either age gracefully and hopefully to start seeing myself as others see me or I can be miserable and notice every little line every time I look in the mirror. I of course know the right choice – I’m pretty sure that in ten or fifteen years, I’ll look at pictures of myself from now and wish I could kick some forty-six year old ass for not appreciating what I have when I have it…

Skin Deep

I’m not a shallow person. I care deeply about many important issues – the environment, animal rights, human rights and a myriad of other causes. Most importantly, I know that beauty is only skin deep. But, skidding towards my forty-fifth birthday has turned me into a shallow narcissist. I stare at myself in the mirror and wonder if I need a face lift or maybe just some Juvederm. I smooth my skin back and curse my fear of doing anything more invasive than applying night cream that promises to slough off dead skin while I sleep, leaving me radiant in the morning. I notice the little lines around my eyes and slather on “anti-aging eye treatment.” I inspect my temples and wonder why a bit of gray is sexy on men, but haggy on women.

My husband tells me I look better than most thirty year olds and my kids insist I’m really only twenty-five. And it makes me feel incredibly ungrateful that I just can’t believe them. I blame part of it on most women’s inability to see themselves as others see them – we’re our own worst critics – and part of it on the cashier at Michael’s. About a month ago I informed her that the cart full of frames I was buying was for my son’s artwork. “He’s in honors art,” I boasted.

“High school or college?” she asked reasonably.

I wanted to cry. Of course I’m old enough to have a son in college; I just don’t want to look like I am. Right before I turned forty, a woman stopped me on my way out of a diner and asked if I was my kids’ mother or their baby sitter. She said that I didn’t look old enough to be their mother, but that I seemed too attentive to be a baby sitter. This happened often. More than once I was mistaken for my kids’ baby sitter or even older sister. A couple of years ago the lady at the front desk at my kids’ middle school yelled at me to stop as I walked out the door. I turned and asked if there was a problem and she sheepishly said that she thought I was a student leaving. I thanked her profusely, before slipping out the door. A year ago an elderly woman asked my mother if I still lived with her. My mother replied that I have my own home and family. The woman looked shocked. She thought I was eighteen. (And I thought she needed glasses.) But now – now someone had not only accepted without even a fraction of disbelief that I have a child the age that I do (fourteen and a half years old), but that I could have one four years older. I’m very disappointed in myself that this bothered me as much as it did.

The inescapable truth though is that I can’t expect to look thirty for the rest of my life. I should just age gracefully and accept that everyone gets wrinkles and gray hair eventually, even if forty-five is the new thirty-five. This isn’t the first time I’ve faced a birthday worrying that I’m looking older – when I turned thirty-five I decided that I suddenly looked old and that I had lines around my mouth, the dreaded parentheses. I dealt with it by getting blonde highlights – the new look cheered me up. That and the fact that people still thought that I was a teenager. This time I’ve been looking for solace at the drug store. No, I’m not buying over the counter drugs to concoct my own mood altering substances – I bought “Age Rewind” foundation. The ad clearly said it would make me look like Christy Turlington, who is just a year younger than I am. Only, when I put it on, it didn’t make me look like Christy Turlington – it only made me look like I had slightly orange spackling on my face. In fact, even Christy Turlington probably doesn’t look like the Christy Turlington in the ad, as gorgeous as she is.

I stopped searching for the miracle and went back to my Origins VitaZing tinted moisturizer, definitely not heavy duty, but it has antioxidants in it to wake up your skin and it gives a nice glow. I also use GinZing brightening eye cream and Halo Effect – a pinkish, shimmery highlighting potion. I use it as a very lightweight blush. It smells yummy and is very subtle, adding just the slightest sheen. I’m a bit addicted to Origins and have been since I was in my mid-twenties and my roommate gave me a basket of Origins goodies for my birthday. I’m planning my next purchase – I received my $10 off coupon for my birthday and every year I treat myself to something. I think this year it will be Starting Over “age erasing moisturizer.” Will it really erase the little fine lines and tighten up everything? I have no idea, but I think it’s really more about feeling like you’re doing something, even if it’s not as radical as a face lift or even a shot of Botox between the eyes.

I think more importantly though, is being easier on ourselves – I say ourselves, because I know I’m not the only one facing this milestone birthday worried that my age is starting to catch up to me. As women we are constantly bombarded with images of celebrities who defy aging. Celebrities who are over fifty and look no older than when they were twenty-five, in fact they look younger than when they were twenty-five. It’s an impossible standard. They either have had “work done” or they’re air brushed to within an inch of being unrecognizable. Comparing ourselves to celebrities is just a recipe for disaster and a distorted self-image.

A few months ago – right after Hurricane Sandy – I was rushing through the mall. I had been sleeping on my sister’s floor for days and had just waited at the overcrowded Apple store for two hours to get my broken phone replaced. A young guy manning a kiosk called me over as I sped by him. “What do you use for your skin?” He asked eyeing me up and down. I told him Origins and he said that it was doing a great job.

I nearly fell to my knees in gratitude. I told him that I was feeling very old and that it’s great to hear that in your forties. He was incredulous and told me that I looked like I was in my twenties. He asked me why I felt like I looked old and why I didn’t see myself as looking young. “You should be grateful and not complain about feeling old,” he admonished. “I’m twenty-seven and you look younger. You obviously have a lot of energy too.” I didn’t tell him that I was running on pure post-storm adrenaline, I just smiled. Then, of course, he tried to sell me his line of skin care, but still – it got me thinking. Do I really see myself as others see me or do I see myself through the lens of impossible expectations and insecurity?

Fast forward to a few weeks ago – I was going to see my eye doctor who has known me since I was sixteen and has a front row seat to the crow’s feet around my eyes. He always tells me I look young and I was sure that this time he wouldn’t – it had been a year, an incredibly stressful year that aged me more than other years. But, sure enough he called me the “ageless wonder” and for just a brief moment, I felt like it. And, I think that’s the key to accepting ourselves for what we are, instead getting depressed every time we look in the mirror – just try to see yourself as others see you. That and maybe a few blonde highlights.