"You look like beef carpaccio! Veil down, I think!"

I just got back from what I feared was going to be a traumatic appointment at the dermatologist. While, thankfully, my days of visiting the doctor for terrible acne to get a refill of that weird cream I had to keep in the refrigerator (convenient as freshman in college, let me tell you!) I have entered a new house of horrors visiting said doctor to discuss how my face is aging. With my thirty-fifth birthday a mere nineteen days away (there'd better be plans, H) I decided it was time to stop using the hog-pog of creams I have been rooked into buying by various celebrity spokespersons and overly made-up saleswomen and get some professional help.

I arrived at the office and was shown to the exam room where I nervously awaited the doctor, distracting myself with feeding Little Man his twentieth graham cracker of the morning. A knock at the door and there she was, the woman who was sure to be able to see every teenaged trip to the shore when I was too embarrassed, and convinced if I just tried hard enough I'd tan, to bring sunscreen. She'd see my love of refined sugars and wine in each enlarged pore and those tiny, but disturbingly WC Fields-esque, veins under my nostrils. I was convinced she would shriek in horror as I told of my regular Oil of Olay usage and fickleness when it comes to facial cleansers, buying whatever is on sale at Target. But worst of all? I was afraid she would say I looked old.

Surprisingly enough, she said my skin "looked good" which I guess beats the, "There are purses out there with better skin texture" I was fearing. We discussed various creams and unguents and then she brought out the big guns. Was I interested in any procedures? I asked her what was available and she asked me, "Well, it depends what results you want."

What did I want? Well, I want to age. Not in the I-want-to-get-old sense, but I am a woman of a certain age and I think I'd like an appropriate amount of that age to show. At thirty-five I don't expect to look twenty-five, I just don't want to look forty-five. I would like people to think when they meet me for the first time "she looks good for her age". In today's youth obsessed culture I feel I have a responsibility to my daughters to age. What example am I setting for them if my actions tell them the best years of your life are when your face is still unlined and you can go bra-less without kicking yourself in the ta-tas? We have very few examples today of women who are aging gracefully and the resultant narrow definition of beauty is doing making women feel like their sexual selves end once those crows start leaving their tracks.

Sure a hit of Botox here and there would smooth out some of the lines on my forehead. And, really? Who would know? But I think it's a slippery slope. And I feel once you cheat time you have to pay the piper at some point. One shot of Botox turns into three or four and before you know it you've painted yourself into corner where your only choice is to keep going or have your face collapse and age thirty years over night.

One of the benefits of our youth-obsessed culture is there are no limits to what we can do as we age if we take care of our bodies and minds. But the drawback of the beauty culture that has developed is we have no appreciation for the beauty that comes with age. The marks on our bodies left by a life well-lived. Trite, but true. Sure, my frown lines are not the best example, but you won't see me getting implants anytime soon to correct the damage done nursing three babies. And my crow's feet are from smiling at my kids, laughing with my husband or squinting on a sunny day at the beach.

So, in the end, I bought some creams, got a retinol prescription and am contemplating a chemical peel. A gentle one, not the Sex and the City "beef carpaccio" variety. I'll see what happens and how my skin looks in a few weeks. Because not matter what happens, in a few weeks? I'll still be thirty-five and no cream is going to change that.