Hiding Botox from My Husband . . . and Justifying It to Myself

As I write this today, I am worn out and throwing my hands in the air. I’m done. I’m tired of articles telling me how to be a better me. Eat healthy. Exercise daily. Spend quality time with your family. Cook from scratch. Use only organic produce. Watch less TV.  Meditate. I’m guilt ridden at the prospect that I’ve fallen short. And as I get older, I have come to hate the advice, “Age gracefully.” What does that mean? “Age is a state of mind.” Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. “You look so good for ____ years old!” Shut up right now! Is it so bad that I sometimes don’t like the way age looks on me? Is it so bad that I want to fight it? Artificially?

I never thought I would submit. I admit that deep down I might have even judged other women for doing “it.”

Confession time: Don’t judge. Good Lord, the last thing I need is guilt on top of the assault of father time. Is there really something wrong with fighting it? I mean if you want to be smarter, you read. Right? If you want a healthier body (or thinner one), you exercise. If you want to make the wrinkles go away, you…you…? Inject! Ouch! Well, don’t object—yet—about the inject.