So the other night, I was sitting innocently on my couch, feet curled under me with a favorite magazine in my lap. In a rare moment of solitude, I started to flip through it, admiring the pretty dresses, the pretty hair, and the pretty faces. Then I spied an article about skincare.

Hmmm…the last time I took a really good look at my mug in my high tech, high-definition skin analysis mirror (which is actually the gigantic mirror in my son’s room that is bathed in an exorbitant amount of natural light due to a nearby window) I did notice some new additions around my eyes that I was none too pleased with. But then somebody shouted that they needed a snack and I forgot about it.

Now, on this night, I decide I should devote the next few minutes of my life to reading this article. It starts off OK. It’s categorized by age, first 20’s, then 30’s…Oh! I’m solidly in my 30’s, that’s me! If I’m only the second category in I must be in good shape. And, since I’m not able to spend $180 on the anti-wrinkle cream that say, Jennifer Aniston and pals use, maybe this article will give me some alternatives. Like how to combine aloe baby wipes, leftover mac & cheese, and rock salt from my garage for a homemade anti-aging remedy.

But as I read on, my facial care optimism is crushed. A bombshell…

In your 30’s, proactive skincare is no longer an option. It’s absolutely essential.

“What?!?” I gasp.

I snap the magazine closed, much like my son does when he gets to the page of his book about space that has a “scary” photo of Jupiter.

My mind is racing…essential?

Is the night cream I buy at Target considered appropriate essential skin care? Surely not. I must get thee some new wrinkle cream and fast! I rip out the page with the $20 “budget” editor’s pick and put it in my purse. Then, the very next day, I did what any other self-respecting 30-something women’s magazine reader with a high-def skin analysis closet mirror would do. I go to the drugstore to find the cream. The $20 alphy-hydroxinated-retaliating-retinol-protocol-copper-super- mushroom-algae-anti-wrinkle, anti-I haven’t slept enough, anti- gravity-botoxinated fantastical cream. The tube is roughly the size of a single matchstick. I use my $3 super-saver coupon bucks and buy it anyway.

As I stand at the sink that night in my flannel pjs dabbing the cream around my eyes, I’m wondering if in 4-6 weeks people will start asking me if I just got back from vacation, or if my plumped epidermis will be the talk of the town. My eyes wander to my hairline, where grays now peek through between trips to the hairdresser. Sigh. I shut off the bathroom light. I check on my babies. I curl up next to my husband and go to sleep.

In the days since I’ve been diligently using my uber-cream (I’m giving it the full 4 weeks before the high-def test), I’ve found myself pondering the lines of a song I love by Brandi Carlile as I stand before my bathroom mirror, trying to dab dab dab away the years …

“All of these lines across my face, tell you the story of who I am.
So many stories of where I’ve been and how I’ve got to where I am…”

Maybe Brandi is onto something.

The itty bitty tube of not-so-cheap wonder cream is sitting in my make-up case.

But my story? Well, I like my story. And for better or for worse, it’s on my face.