When Real Life Gives You Wrinkles

I caught myself at it again while driving--lost in thought with eyebrows furrowed and face scrunched, worrying over something big. Immediately I relaxed my face, sighing and rubbing the crease between my brows--as if that would erase the line that I could literally feel deepening every time I caught myself in a deep-thinking scowl.

Just a few weeks prior, I'd gotten up one fated morning, and--quite suddenly it seemed--met a new face in the mirror. It looked hauntingly like mine, but was definitely not the altogether spry young face I'd known for so long.

Of course, in many was I still consider myself pretty darn young at my current thirty-something years. And I've always been in the camp that it's better to grow old gracefully, embracing it bit by bit, instead of trying to fight it.

But it's one thing to know this in the back your mind, and quite another to so unexpectedly and literally arrive face to face with the gathering evidence that we are, in fact, mere mortals. Me, my face, and I notwithstanding.

Aging gracefully bit by bit doesn't actually feel so gradual when you're jolted into a reality check long before your time, or so it seems, because time moves faster than it ever cares to remind us.

I most certainly didn't relish awakening to the stark realization that the once-cute sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of my nose had become a constellation of sunspots covering the expanse of my face.

Or that my forehead, once smooth when relaxed, now held uneven creases independent of any expression.

And those genetic dark circles around my eyes--at one time my only woe--were now framed by tissue-thin folds of wrinkles with a widening web of crow's feet that, at close enough range, no makeup could cover. 

My reaction was less than graceful, I must say. I had every desire to make it all go away. 

But that day in the car a few weeks later, vigorously rubbing at the crease that obviously wouldn't lessen but only redden with my attempts, I finally took a much-needed step back after glancing in the mirror to laugh at myself. What futility, this ongoing battle of mine with superficiality!

And for once, as I laughed aloud [creating more creases] and shook my head at my vainglory, I also stopped to actually consider the worry behind that wrinkle-inducing expression. That day, lost in thought behind the wheel with three loves buckled in the back, it dawned on me that it was unfettered concern for my son behind my deepening my facial lines--concern stemming from an intense desire to try and solve a problem for the sake of his well being, born out of the strongest kind of love rooted in the very depths of my soul.

As I sat thinking over this preoccupation with the wrinkles--that were, in fact, brought on by a moment of such beautiful mothering, I wondered: "What is the story behind the rest of these lines I'm loathing?"

So I looked closer, and the answers surprised my newly-opened eyes.

I saw behind the crow's feet the kindness of countless smiles, genuine laughter, spontaneous delight.

I looked at the smattering of sunspots, highlighted by moments in which I sought out warmth and light, allowing myself a rare minute of rest or leisure.

I studied all the worry lines born out of fears which I have worked to victoriously overcome, crisscrossed by lines from the stress and long hours of sacrificing and providing for my family. And the deepest lines of all? They were the ones formed by the deepest kind of love, a love that spends a lifetime desiring nothing less than the highest ultimate good for another.

Yes, as I looked with new eyes, my perspective shifted ever so slightly. 

Above all, I saw the proof of purpose staring back at me: 

This face, older than yesterday, reminding me through the mirror that I've been given another day of purpose here on this Earth. A gift, even when we're ungracious in the receiving, but such a gift when so many others are denied the privilege of waking up to wrinkles and gray hairs and stiff joints.

It was a perspective I'd been aching for.

All my young life, I've longed to reflect in my words and manner a certain something, gained through the elusive wisdom and experience of age. Now, when I'm finally turning the corner and stepping onto the path of more seasoned humanity, I'm awakened to a decision: will I accept that the gifts I desire are created to manifest both inside invisibly and outwardly, quite physically?

Granted, I know it isn't wrong to feel and acknowledge the raw emotions and reactions as we journey through any change. Especially when that change is associated with visible deterioration, and carries with it a certain grief for the past, tied tight to the present privilege of growing older.

Still, deep down I know the difference between the path to gradual, healthy self-acceptance and outright escape and rejection of reality. I know the truth about our world as it clambers to sell me feel-good skin products, hundreds of which I have admittedly bought, zero of which have instilled in me any sense of true worth.

It's all temporary. None of it can reach beyond skin deep to find and fill the heart.

I recognize [even as I let myself get swept up in it], the message of a confused world that in turn seeks to confuse others. On one hand, it tells me to "live authentically;" on the other, it entreats me to impress by erasing any and all physical evidence etched into my skin by the most authentic and formative moments of my life. The irony.

It's a world that wants me to be "real" strictly in ways that look and feel and sound acceptable--because too real is far too messy; it doesn't stay nicely packaged and tucked in and picture-perfect. Better to hide the evidence under a cookie cutter image than embrace the fullness of reality, layer upon good and bad and messy layer, of who we actually are.

And so, as I subconsciously reach to rub away my hard-earned forehead lines and consider the internal wrestling match that has waged for weeks, one I'm sure will ebb and flow yet for years, I ask myself the million dollar question:

Which do I really want?

Is selling my confidence to Retinol or Botox worth the approval of a world that won't--maybe can't--value the full depth of my soul? [Because whether or not I want to admit it, at its most basic level, that's what this comes down to].

I think [when I actually stop to think] that my answer is a resounding no.

It's an answer that makes me smile wanly, and I allow the smile to linger even against lines that it brings forth.

I definitely don't have to love how these lines look. I'm sure I never will. But I'm not going to let myself get stuck anymore on what's merely skin deep. At least not without reminding myself to look closer and recognize the beauty of internal growth and life experience behind every line--all of which have led me to the fullness of this current place and this ever-mellowing face.

I still want to look and feel beautiful, because true beauty is woven by the Creator into every fiber of my feminine heart.

But deep down, I know I won't find it in fake, limited, just like everyone else beautiful. It doesn't exist in pandering to the spirit of "alter my real self and be approved by you so I can approve of me too," one-dimensional beauty.

I want to embrace real, unadulterated, beautiful. Let my heart love and my face show it beautiful. Fully me beautiful--lines, spots, and all.

That, in itself, is a beautiful discovery.