Crow's Toes

I'd like to tell you that I'm embracing the crow's toe that has grown into an entire foot. I'd even like to say that the laugh lines appearing around my infectious smile are endearing. I want to tell you that I'm not shallow enough to even notice the indentions on my forehead that make me reconsider bangs.

I'd like to tell you those things.

But, I just spent over $200 on a miracle cream praying that flakes of God himself are included in the ingredients. Said purchase was shortly after my thirty-one year old friend referred to me as being in my "mid-thirties."

I didn't think I'd get here. I laughed when Amie suggested I start using eye cream in my mid-twenties. That was for old people. I was youth personified, supple skin and crinkle free smiles. I never wanted to age, but I pushed it out of my head. Then, I realized my toe was turning to a foot and decided I would age gracefully, embracing the wisdom bestowed upon me by living life gregariously, out loud, blah blah fucking blah.

Let's be honest. This wrinkle thing sucks. You lose your face, your metabolism grinds to a screeching halt and right next to you is a twenty-something with an ass that makes you want to roll into a ball and cry next to the eliptical machine that has sucked out your spirit and replaced it with self loathing, I used to be pretty. Why? Whhhhhyyyyy?

I cringe when I notice that the "stars" that marked the decade of my youth are now in their forties, fifties and rehab. This unfortunately begs the question - who the hell is this Demi Lovato that is stealing People magazine away from Matt, Ben, Jennifer and Brad?

Mags and I were waiting for an elevator last week when I caught her eyes shifting away from my forehead.

"Do you miss Botox?"

I glared at her, "Did you just look at my forehead and ask me that question?"

She giggled and stammered, "I.. um. Well, I need it too!"

We quickly discussed the Botox party we will be having once my little girl is no longer dependent upon my ability to remain poison free.

I do love the other aspects of aging. No one asks me how old I am when I take control of a meeting anymore.

No one has to worry about my heart falling out of my chest because a boy curled his lips around a lie. I knowingly smile at the twenty-something girl with the adorable ankle boots and glossed lips. She has her arms wrapped through and around the boy that will soon break her heart and leave her reeling, growing the shell casing we all hide our hearts behind by the time we're twenty-seven and "thirty and single" begins to loom.

Life feels more settled, more of what I'd spent all those years reaching for with angsty dreams and singed fingertips. It is calm, comfortable and full of all the things I molded, wrapped and finagled through sheer sweat and determination.

Some of those things are apparently the bank account that allows me to drop $200 on a cream that better be miraculous.

I will even settle for amazing.

These crows aren't migrating on their own.