I do worry about our society’s addiction to the fountain of youth and am concerned that my two daughters will fall victim to that myth. Every television show, commercial, movie, and magazine ad depicts Utopian models of women. The average teenage girl isn’t going to see the army of stylists, hairdressers, and makeup artists that arranged that “natural look.” They are blissfully unaware that these photos are retouched by photographers and that there are lighting experts schooled in all the deceptive tricks of the trade.

This is not to say that I am not vain and narcissistic. I find myself studying ads for plastic surgeons and wondering if I should take this old girl in for a tune-up. As I watch my breasts go south for the winter, I sometimes wistfully wish there was a remedy for gravity — sooner or later everything falls victim to it. Gravity is akin to death, taxes, and prison — it’s inevitable and incurable. Then I shake it off and am once again grateful for Victoria’s Secret’s Miracle Bras (aptly named I must say). Coming to my senses, resisting plastic surgery’s siren song, I do a reality check of all my blessings (which are many). My mom always says she’d “go back for the body but not for the head.” I don’t agree. It’s so easy to try and erase time’s handiwork. I think it’s much more important to work on the interior; the exterior is only so much window dressing.

How many of us have given in and spent an exorbitant amount of money on a new outfit, hoping against hope that it will give us the ability to conquer the world (not too mention make us look ten pounds thinner and ten years younger)? It’s our belief in ourselves that gives us the necessary self-confidence to achieve our dreams, not a brand new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.

When we are born, we have the face of an angel; when we die, however, we have the face we earned. What are these Hollywood plastic surgery survivors going to do when they meet St. Peter at the pearly gates? Their faces have no expression, no individuality, and no life. They bear a rather unfortunate resemblance to those cardboard cutouts at Hollywood Video.

What message are we sending our daughters by our tacit approval of this behavior? I’m not surprised that eating disorders plague today’s young girls and that many of them are opting for surgical intervention before they are mature enough to make that choice. I too was that young, spending a large portion of my life looking for a quick fix only to find that I had those solutions inside me all along. That journey seems to have become a rite of passage for all women.

In life, it really isn’t the destination that molds you; it’s the little things that happen along that serpentine path. Those lines on my face are literally a map of my life. I have learned to love myself, warts and all. I hope my two daughters come to that realization without too much heartache or drama.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned on my quest is that life is too short and time is much too precious to waste on the superficial. But I must confess I do still love a good pair of Jimmy Choo shoes. I occasionally allow temptation to win (especially if it involves 6-inch stiletto heels and sensual Italian leather).

I like that woman I see in the mirror, lines and all. These are hard-earned and I would not trade them for the world. Outsiders think the lines are from sorrow and despair (because of that whole prison/convicted felon thing). Others know the truth. My family and friends see a woman quick to laugh and tell a joke, that has opinions and some admittedly bizarre stories to tell.

In my opinion, my face has become a barometer which tells the story of a woman who has been through tragedy with grace and fortitude. To me, those lines equal courage, wisdom and, most of all, humor. This is my daughters' legacy. Don’t take so long to fall in love with yourself. Believe me — I know from experience — it’s worth it.