When Hope is Not Enough

I must, must, must stay out of places like Sephora and Ulta.

Like mustmustmust.   I never learn.

I walk in those places innocently enough, on a quest for something innocuous like nail polish or lip gloss, and consistently walk out with a neon sign reading "RAPIDLY DECAYING HAS-BEEN" over my head.  And, yeah, a bag containing an anti-aging arsenal usually accompanies me, too, as I shame-slump to my car and ponder how the F*#@ I became a middle-aged train wreck.

If the product claims are to be believed, in 30 days, I will have the flawless complexion of a 22 year old Swedish model.  Alternatively, it's more than possible that in 30 days, I will have chemical burned my skin beyond recognition.  This might not be all bad, actually.  If I do, in fact, manage to burn off my face, I will select the skin of a 22 year old Swedish model as its replacement.  When doors are closed, seek windows, people.

I recently turned 37.  This means I am now officially the age that I once thought I'd be when I finally had my shit together--which, incidentally, I don't.  At all.

I've read enough women's lifestyle magazines in my lifetime with articles titled "40 and Fabulous" to have believed that with age comes wisdom and self-confidence and inner peace.  Now, that's some shit that should be sold at Sephora.  As it stands, I suppose I have 2 years and 11.5 months for the inner peace and grace to overtake me.  In the meantime, I will simply buy products called "When Hope is Not Enough, "Keep the Peace" and, god help me, "Miracle Worker"... and await magical transformation.

Yeah, I took women's studies classes in college.  Did well in them, too.  Can't you tell?

I don't think I'm alone in this madness, either....which in itself is some sort of madness.

I doubt that most men think of themselves this way.  In fact, I had lunch today at Buffalo Wild Wings and had the privilege of overhearing a bunch of middle aged men (complete with ill-fitting football jerseys that failed to conceal their guts hanging over their pants) complaining about how Erin Andrews has really "let herself go."

Riiiiiiiiiight.

I don't know with absolute certainty, but I feel pretty good about guessing that those guys possessed that delusional self-confidence that make them believe to their cores that the cover models from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue would duke it out for their affection.

Again.  Riiiiiiiiiight.

Compounding the madness is the fact that I'm raising a little girl, and the only thing in this world that I absolutely cannot screw up is her.  I swear up, down and sideways that I am raising her to be a woman of integrity, strength, dignity and character and that beauty is within...and when she's napping, I smear chemical glop all over my face to assault my wrinkles.  Hello, hypocrisy!

For the moment, I will cut myself a very small break and remind myself that I have taught her some worthwhile things---like how to throw zingers in foreign languages, how to ride the NYC subway, life lessons through song lyrics, how to run in heels and how NOT to cook.

This may have earned me a wrinkle or two,