Botox ads glide in my Instagram feed. I’m not pleased.

Apparently, I’m now a woman of a certain age who needs injections to treat facial creases. Or at least targeted marketing to remind me that wrinkles are imminent.

I turned 43 this month and have never considered Botox. I’m arrogant enough to think I don’t have tributaries across my face. But I am vain, er, dumb, enough to buy $140 Ponce De Leon cream to diminish bags underneath my eyes. Magic isn’t the main ingredient in the tube; every morning those bags stick their tongue out at me in the mirror.

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Each year since turning 41, slow physical changes catch me off guard. I gave birth for the first time the year before and had never struggled with the scale prior to pregnancy. Breastfeeding staved off baby fat. When I stopped, my clothes gradually felt super snug.

Several months ago, a stranger in a grocery store congratulated me on my bundle of joy as he pointed at my stomach. I bitingly responded, “I’m not pregnant.” He scurried away.

I dress strategically to hide the mom pouch. Pilates, tennis, planks, crunches and burpees tighten my core but fail to flatten the tummy. In a swimsuit, I look more befitting for lounging at a suburban pool than sunning at the Soho House. When a vegan fast failed, I asked my doctor what was wrong. She examined my stomach and told me I had diastasis, a condition in which my abdominal muscles separated after having a baby.

I was relieved. At least I had an answer for the stubborn bulge in the middle of my belly.

The only solution, she said, was surgery, which isn’t an option. She also suggested that I download the Weight Watchers app.

At home, I cook Meatless Mondays for the family. I don’t fry food or drink pop. I prefer to buy organic and avoid fast food. But I don’t always make the best food choices. I ate homemade key lime pie this morning and bookended the day with a few bites of peach cobbler. To be fair, I ate a lot of leafy greens in between and did 70 morning push-ups.

It’s not just my weight that’s taunting me as I get older.

This summer I realized I need readers, and I got prescribed progressive eyeglasses from the optometrist. Strands of gray hair appear every month, and I’m debating whether to color. In 2018, gray was the most popular hair color trend with some fashionable young women choosing to go gray.

Gray hair typically doesn’t grow in evenly. It’s patchy, stringy, brittle and sometimes tinted with yellow. If my hair transitioned into beautiful pearly streaks of silver, I’d keep the dye out. But I will probably choose coloring like most of the women in my family.

So those are my hair, body and face issues. My husband once referred to me as middle-aged and I seriously whipped around to see who he was addressing. My father lies about my age because he doesn’t want friends to think he’s old enough to have a child my age. (Sorry, daddy!)

Of course I know the alternative to aging and I am in good health with much to be thankful for, even if it’s not a snapback body. I don’t work in a cosmetic industry, but I’m also not immune to the impossible American beauty standards. How could I not? I bought useless expensive eye cream. Sure, I’ve rejected Botox, waist trainers and a tummy tuck, but when I see myself, I’m reminded of my own mortality. I look different, older.

Time has not stood still even if 1990 feels like 10 years ago. Childhood, high school and young adult memories are as clear as A Tribe Called Quest lyrics.

On the other hand, I suppose I should consider embracing my road to elderhood. Someone told me I must be the “big mama” of my family because I tweet about the “Young & the Restless” soap opera and brag about soaking pinto beans and greens on Sunday mornings.

Both of my grandmothers wore house dresses as a home uniform, and as a child I regarded them as ugly patches of cotton. How silly was I. This birthday I requested and received one from my mother. Next up, I plan to go full Blanche Devereaux and Mrs. Roper to dress in flowing caftans around the house.

Age is a state of mind, we’re told. I’ll get through my early midlife crisis. I must remember that in her kitchen cabinet, my mother has a mug that says every age is “the new 30.”

Natalie Moore is a reporter for WBEZ.org

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