aging skin

For my entire life, until very (very) recently, I never thought of my skin as separate from my body. It was my shrink wrap—it covered me, hugged me, protected me, encased me. I moisturized. I wore sun screen. I took care of it and it took care of me. Yes, there were breakouts, sunburns, flaking skin issues on occasion, but my skin and I were relatively happy. We were always together.

Only now, my skin isn't holding on as tightly as it used to. I can see it separate from my body. My belly has a couple of little (sometimes I'm starting to think not-so-little) skin rolls when I sit down. When I pinch the skin on my arm, it hangs out for a bit before snapping back into place. Ok, it never snaps anymore. It just slowly settles down. My upper legs? Almost the worst. My skin is progressively loosening and droopy down from the tops of my thighs to my knees. Eventually I'm afraid I'll lose my kneecaps in folds of flesh.

The worst (WORST) is the slight sag under my chin. My grandmother had a pronounced turkey waddle and I was petrified, from age 6 or so, that I'd develop that skin flap that had it's own personality. For years I'd almost subconsciously stroke under my chin, as if to encourage my skin to stay put. But the tautness is gone. Unless I opt for surgery or some medieval skin care treatment that entails burning off layers of my face, I'm trapped in the downward spiral.

Last weekend a dad at a little league game, who happens to be a anti-aging doctor (eye surgery, botox, skin treatments and the like) said: who doesn't want to look good?, as if aging doesn't stand a chance of working for anyone. And suddenly, shockingly, I found myself in the middle of my first botox yearning.