Two things happened over the weekend. First, I looked at the photo I posted last Friday from my wedding day. A copy of it is on our refrigerator, and a similar one sits atop my nightstand, so I see it on a daily basis. But seeing isn’t the same as looking. You know what I noticed? My face is fuller in the photo. Somewhere along the way in the past four years the remains of my baby face disappeared, and things became more…angular?

Huh.

Then, by chance my husband and I ran into our old mutual friend that introduced us. Neither of us had seen him in a very long time. While he brought us up to date on all the goings on in his life, I found myself only half-listening, instead I watched his face. He looked well, but he also looked so much older than the last time I saw him. I’m sure you guys can guess my next thought…

Holy shit, have I aged too???

The obvious answer is yes, which led to my next question – have I aged that much? So as soon as we got home I dug out a mirror and went over to a window so I could stand in the sun and examine my face. If you’re a woman, then you know exactly what I’m talking about – you need to see it in sunlight to determine the truth. If you’re a man, then you likely have the same expression as my husband did when he asked, “What are you doing?”

Duh. I’m inspecting for wrinkles.

Not long ago I posted about the fact that men may look in the mirror, but aren’t really paying attention to the reflection staring back at them. Women are prone to scrutinize. But while I may do a weekly search to make sure Father Time hasn’t sent grey hairs my way, it would seem I’m blissfully unaware of the oh-so-slight changes that happen gradually. I only see me, more or less the same as I’ve always been.

Do you guys remember the study that came out a while back in which the researchers determined a majority of people believe they look younger than their age? Not that we need a study to tell us that – no one says, yeah, I look exactly like I’m sixty. We all think, “oh, I could pass for (fill in the blank)”. Which is all fine and dandy, except we also know some people are fooling themselves. I see it all the time living in the Los Angeles area, which bursts at the seams with people in the entertainment industry, as well as a boatload of plain ole narcissists. It’s practically par for the course for folks to lie about their age. Sometimes no one knows, and sometimes everyone does, but no one says anything. I mean, what are you going to do, ask to see a birth certificate?

I’m not particularly bothered by my age, even as the number grows larger. I haven’t lied about it since I was a minor trying to get into a club. But I am bothered by the thought of looking that number (and that’s a grotesque understatement, if someone told me I looked my age I’d flip. You best believe I’da been one of the people in the study that was positive I could pass for younger, dammit). So I do what you do to take care of the one and only body you’ll have on this earth. You eat well, exercise, and use moisturizer and sunscreen (now, that is. If only I started wearing sunscreen fifteen years ago, *sigh*). Simple enough, right? And then, somewhere around the late twenties, you wake up, look in the mirror, and realize plain jane lotion isn’t enough.

Enter anti-aging potions.

It’s funny that I take such care of what I put inside my body, trying to avoid processed foods and chemicals, while being totally willing to slather an entire chemistry set on the outside. And I do. Nightly. I don’t necessarily think I’m turning back the clock, but I’d like to think I’m holding age at bay. In the past couple years, however, my aging concerns have changed. Now I need a magical elixir to preserve my insides (sadly, the pickling effects of my cocktail recipes aren’t exactly helpful). No longer are my worries merely vanity related. My knees, for example, sound like Rice Krispies. No lie. They snap and crackle not only when I work out, but also when walking up stairs, every single time. Suddenly, thoughts of ‘what will I look like in twenty years’ turn to what will I feel like? And I would rather look like shit than feel like it, you know what I mean?

Interestingly, while I notice whether or not the appearance of friends and family have changed, I don’t really see it in my husband. I’m sure this is because, like my own reflection, I see him every day. When I look at him, I see a more put together version of the dude I started dating years ago. I’d like to think he sees the same. So while it was interesting to contemplate what I look like through the eyes of someone else this weekend, I believe I’ll go back to using my own rose tinted glasses, thank you very much.

Now, if only I could pretend my knees are the same.