The Best Kept Secret Blog - Wrinkles vs. The Anti-Aging Creams

Who would have guessed that my face would turn into a theatre of war and that my teenage years spent listening to Paul Simon on my transistor radio while suntanning in the back yard would be the friendly fire that proved my undoing?

I'm talking about my wrinkles, crows feet, laugh lines, frown lines, deep lines, fine lines (pick one) and the creams that promise to obliterate them and liberate me from aging.

It all started simply enough. Last Friday I ran out of moisturizer. No big deal. I had errands to do that afternoon. I'd just pop into the drugstore and buy some more.

I popped in. I made my way to the moisturizer aisle. And there is a whole aisle, by the way. An entire aisle devoted to greasing our skin. In my mother's day, there was Vaseline and Nivea. But I digress....

So there I am, standing in the aisle, staring at the huge selection of skin care products, trying to figure out what's right for me when I become aware of a kind of code that all the various brands seem to employ. None of them called their products, "This Makes Your Skin Feel Less Tight Cream". No, they were way more serious than that. They meant business. They were all out to blow my wrinkles to kingdom come.

At the more benign end of the scale were the "therapists". Dermaglow, for example, offered me Advanced Wrinkle Therapy and Targeted Wrinkle Therapy for $120 and $80 respectively. I imagine these are designed to work with my wrinkles, make them understand they're there due to some unresolved childhood trauma and help them move on to become new and improved skin.

Loreal's Wrinkle De-Crease and Nivea Visage's Wrinkle Reducer made me think a few wrinkles were permitted, as long as they toed the line and knew their place. Less was definitely more.

NeoStrata saw wrinkles as a more serious enemy. Their Wrinkle Defense clearly was there to defend the fort, I mean the face, at all costs.

The real heavy weapons were wielded by Modele. They're openly anti-wrinkle. If the Anti-Wrinkle Face Treatment doesn't do the trick, they'll trot out the big guns and try to annihilate the suckers with their Intensive Anti-Wrinkle Spot Facial.

I briefly thought I should give these weapons in the war on aging more respect. Apparently some radicals, free radicals to be accurate, have been loosed in my body and they're making me look old. The lotions and potions are simply trying to seek out and destroy this enemy.

Now if I had the choice, would I rather my skin looked the way it did in my 20s than the way it does now? Yeah, probably. But shelling out the big bucks for this stuff won't turn back time.

I like to think that the lines got there because I used my face. Because I laughed and cried and worried and had an interesting life. Maybe we should be more worried if we don't have the wrinkles. Perhaps it indicates a life that's been lived less well?

Though up against a powerful force, I would not surrender. After some time, I managed to find a Neutrogena daily moisturizer with a 30 SPF. It just promises to make my skin feel less tight and protect me from the sun.

My wrinkles? They live to fight another day.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Birthday Blues

There were only two occasions that I remember my mother feeling blue.

The first time was when her hairdresser talked her into an "of the moment" pixie cut and my father told her he felt like he was married to a man.

The other time was on her 48th birthday.

None of us - my father, my brother or myself - remembered it was her birthday. Mother didn't say a word to remind us. She probably was wondering how long it would take us to remember or if we even would.

We all went shopping at Eaton's that afternoon and had come home with our purchase - a wooden hamburger press. Mom was trying out the new press, making dinner, when she casually mentioned, "It's my birthday."

Our reactions were mixed. My brother grunted and went to watch Hockey Night In Canada. I made a lame suggestion that the hamburger press could be her birthday present. And my dad looked like he was calculating how big a present he would have to buy in order to make up for his foible.

My mother just quietly went about making dinner but I could tell she was sad.

This would never happen to me because I like a big fuss to be made on my birthday.

I make sure my family knows it's coming up. They're way beyond remembering my birthday. They're in the land of "We'd better make it good or there will be heck to pay." And just to make sure things measure up, I have a wee tradition of taking myself shopping on the big day. I look forward to my birthday each year.

Except this year.

This week I turned 46 and for the first time, I didn't want the birthday to come. If I'm being honest, I was a little depressed. I don't mind the number and I wouldn't want to be a minute younger. I like being at this stage in life.

But this birthday was a reminder that I'm one step closer to, well, death. For the first time, I'm getting an inkling that there's not plenty of time left. I've known it in my head for a while but I'm knowing it in a different way now.

My husband suggests that this is where mid-life crisis' take root. That people panic and go out and have affairs with their assistants or buy those red sports cars or those really good purses. He may be right.

Going Gray author Anne Kreamer whom I interviewed this week said that when she was in her early fifties, she calculated she had some 20 odd years left going by life expectancy charts. This realization spurred her on to make choices about how she chose to spend her time. I assumed this meant doing some great charitable work or climbing Mount Everest. But no, for her it meant spending more time hanging out and watching TV with her children.

I admire Anne's outlook. And hey, life is short. It's time to cut to the chase and make the right choices. I think I'll go make the kids some hamburgers.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Age InAppropriate

My friends C. and E. were in town this weekend, visiting from Vancouver and Edmonton respectively. Each year the three of us get together for a weekend of talking, eating, wine drinking and of course, every one's favourite, shopping.

Despite being in our late 40s and early 50s, apart from the occasional break to accommodate someones hot flash, we didn't skip a beat. We had the shopping stamina of three 18-year-olds let loose with their dad's credit cards.

I'm always a little astounded by how different our styles are.

C. is the cool, sophisticated one in the group. If I had to liken us to a latter day Sex In The City ensemble (we'd be more like Eat Chocolate, Read Magazines in the City), C. would be Miranda.

E. is a cross between Carrie and Samantha. Tall, sexy and embracing fashion fun.

And me, I'm the Charlotte in the group - usually proper but sometimes just a little naughty. (That is if you define eating popcorn and drinking white wine for dinner when the rest of the family is away as being naughty.)

Anyhow, there we were at the new Winners store on Front street, piling clothes in our cart with abandon, when I had a dawning realization that we had a huge variety of stuff. We had everything from power suits to animal prints in there. Red high heels to gray fleece hoodies. Short skirts and long.

What was remarkable was that there was no uniform here. No, "This is what people like 'us' wear." No, "Am I too old for this?". No age appropriate. We just chose what we liked.

Now, because of the work I do I continually find myself grappling with the question, "What is age appropriate?"

I must confess that when I met a 40-something woman at a dinner this summer who was wearing a short skirt, tight top and sky high heels, it crossed my mind that her attire wasn't age appropriate.

But when I occasionally pick up In-Style magazine and they show a particular garment three ways - one way for women in their 20s, one way for women in their 30s and one way for women in their 40s and beyond, I'm often disappointed by the one supposedly for my age group. It just doesn't look like me.

My retail excursion this weekend ended up being an epiphany of sorts for me.

What is age appropriate? I don't know but I think I'm getting a better handle on what is age inappropriate.

It's inappropriate to think you have to dress or do your make-up a certain way just because you're middle-aged.

It's inappropriate to let friends, family, and marketers tell you what's right for you.

It's inappropriate to not embrace your fun-loving, or sexy, or kooky and quirky style because women our age aren't supposed to.

And it's inappropriate to feel like you have to act in a certain way just because you're at this stage of life.

The whole experience made me think of a phrase that came to mind the day I turned 40. "I'm 40 years old, darn it, and I'm old enough to do what I want."

Viva middle-age!

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Annual Physical

There I was again, sitting buck naked save for a flimsy paper gown, waiting for the doctor to start my annual physical.

Believe it or not, I used to look forward to my phsyical. On some level, it confirmed that I was young and vital and healthy. Far from expecting them to find anything wrong, it was my chance to prove just how fit I was.

I think the apex of my check-ups was the year my doctor beamed at me when she delivered the news that my cholesterol levels were the best of any patient she had ever seen. It was a personal best and I aimed to beat those levels each check-up.

This year, however, things were different.

My doctor always starts by hooking me up to a blood pressure and heart rate monitor. She leaves the room while the machine takes a series of six readings.

"Surely this will go well," I thought. "I've been lifting a few weights, using the treadmill, walking the dog." But as I watched the panel show the first set of readings, things seemed a tad high compared to my memory of last year's results.

I felt a flutter of anxiety pass over me and started to breathe a little more quickly - obviously a bad thing because the next set of readings were even worse.

In an attempt to get control of the situation (only out of shape, old people have high blood pressure - not fit young things like me!) I immediately began using the deep breathing technique we use in yoga class.

"Good, good", I thought. "Things are getting better." And they were. The next two readings were good. I must have gotten too cocky though for numbers five and six were right back up.

As my doctor breezed back into the room, she had me hop on the scale. Feeling like I'd gotten a C+ in blood pressure, I was determined to make up for it in weight and height. Up five pounds from last year? Surely that can't be. What do you mean it's normal at my age? It's not normal for me!

The rest of the exam was routine until we got to the end when she handed me a requisition for a mammogram and a bone density test.

Mammograms I've had before but a bone density test? My bones are fine for goodness sakes. I'm not elderly and frail. I'm not afraid of falls. I'll show her. Keener that I am, I'm determined to get the highest score possible on that bone density scan if it's the last thing I do!

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Is This What 40 (or 50) Looks Like? Really?

I recently had the dubious pleasure of appearing on t.v. It was a small spot - just a five minute interview about The Best Kept Secret website. But I wanted it to be good.

Like all smart women, the first thing I did was wonder what to wear. I carefully chose my outfit, scheduled a hair appointment for the day prior to the show and sought the advice of a media consultant on how to sit, stand and do my makeup.

I rehearsed my message a dozen times a day and when the moment came, I was ready.

I sat down with the gorgeous and glamorous host, said what I came to say and when the whole thing was said and done, I felt pretty good.

The first thing I did when I got home was put in the tape of the interview. I settled into a chair, hit the play button and there was the gorgeous, glamorous host introducing me. As the camera swung to where I should have been sitting, another woman was in my place.

"Who is that middle-aged woman and what have they done with me?", I demanded. "Oh my goodness, that's me! I'm middle-aged!!"

I've got to tell you, the whole episode has left me pretty shaken. In my minds eye, I don't see myself as "middle-aged". I see myself as, well, younger.

I've heard about this phenomena afflicting others. The elderly will often say they feel the same way inside that they've always felt. Women will sport the same haircut for decades because they perceive themselves as they did when they were in high-school. I just didn't think it was happening to me. Denial, thy name is Karen.

In her fabulous book, Going Gray, author Anne Kreamer tells of a similar experience. She sees a photo of herself, her daughter, and an older friend. She's struck by how her daughter and the friend look "real" but with her dyed chestnut brown hair , she doesn't seem real to herself. "I looked like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't. Someone still young." Ouch.

So what do I do now? What does middle-age look like?

At one end of the spectrum are the people who do nothing special to enhance their appearance and age 100% naturally. At the other end are the people who are pulled so tight they look like they're going to snap. And then there are the rest of us at various stages in between.

I'm not yet sure where I sit with this but I know it will involve well fitting clothes, wine with friends and an avoidance of mirrors.

Or maybe the mirrors don't really matter one way or another. Perhaps the place to be is with the nursing home set who say they still feel the same way inside. Maybe it's time to start trusting the inside a little more and the outside a little less.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Good Old Days?

The other night my husband and his buddy R. got to reminiscing about "the good old days" over a couple of beers.

Were they talking about their way with women back in the day? Nope. Were they thinking of their glory days on the sports field? Not that either. How their careers soared when they were fresh out of university? Uh, uh. They were talking about computer technology.

It started with a story from R. about how he couldn't hook up his new computer. "I worked on it all day and finally had to hire someone who knew how these things work."

I wanted to ask why the heck he had wasted an entire day when he could have asked for help from the get-go but I figured it was related to that "I'd rather try to read the map and get more lost than ask for directions" gene that men possess.

My husband commiserated with him and mused, "Remember back in university when we knew everything you could possibly want to know about computers?"

"Yeah", said R. "We could program our Commodore 64's like there was no tomorrow."

"If only FORTRAN was still a popular programming language", my husband sighed.

As I listened to the two of them lamenting these good old days, I was struck by how, well, old they sounded. They could have been seniors in a nursing home. ("I remember when we drove a horse and buggy everywhere. Those were the days.")

It made me wonder about how easy it is for us to get stuck in a stage, to not keep up with the times.

It applies to lots of things. We get stuck with the same look we've worn for years. We get stuck in our ideas ("A proper family has one wife, one husband and one or more children. Anything else doesn't count.") And we get stuck in our attitudes about embracing new technology.

Now, I've got to admit that the older I get, the harder it is to learn new things. My 11 year old daughter knows more about programming the PVR and working our DVD player than I ever will. And frankly, it seems much easier to ask her to help me than to invest the time and figure it out for myself.

And some of you might be wondering why we should even concern ourselves with keeping up with certain things. Aren't there more important things in life than worrying about something as trivial as whether our haircut is "in" or not?

I left the guys to their beers and went to check my e-mail and book an upcoming trip to New York on the Internet.

I glanced at a picture I keep on my desk of my husband and I at our wedding in 1987. There I am, smiling bride with hair permed so curly, high and full that it always reminds me of that other bride - the Bride of Frankenstein.

Ahh. . .there's my handsome groom sporting the huge glasses with plastic frames that were de rigour back then and a moustache that I loved at the time but now looks like a caterpillar crawling across his upper lip. Thank goodness for laser eye surgery and razors.

Since my husband was occupied with his friend, I decided to find my daughter and ask her to show me how to program that PVR. Maybe it's worth keeping up after all.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Audition Party Guest List

The last time I auditioned for a play was my grade three Christmas pageant when I tried out for the part of Mrs. Claus. I knew I'd have to do something special to stand out so I sewed a red pom pom to one of my mom's doilies and wore it as a hat. It did the trick - I got the part.

I'm thinking of trying out for a play again. This time it's the the Dove play that will feature 12 "real women" all over the age of 45. Nine women have been cast so far and the search is on for the remaining three.

There will be no lines to memorize, teachers to impress or doilies to sew this time around. All that's required is for me to write and submit a "Dear Body" letter to the good folks at Dove.

To help me in my task, Dove is encouraging me to host an audition party where me and my friends gather round and speak candidly about our bodies. The closest I've ever come to an experience like this was twelve years ago when several of us had too much to drink at a bridal shower and began spilling our guts about what our favourite body part was.

Being the keener that I am, I've decided to take Dove up on their challenge and host a party. The first thing I need to do is round up some friends. Hmmm. . . who to invite.

My friend H. is a real party girl but I know what she'll write even before the party begins. Ever since she found that new push-up bra, she's been fixated on her breasts. "Dear Body, Don't we look good in these low cut tops. Cleavage rocks!"

N. and L., always supportive, will surely come if I ask them. N.'s been working out for several months and looks great. Her Dear Body letter will probably be an ode to her biceps and her personal trainer, both worthy of applause.

Y. is a dear friend but if I have to hear her childbirth story one more time I think I will scream. "Dear Body, Who knew you could birth a child as big as a large watermelon. You're amazing." Haven't we all felt like we were passing watermelons when we delivered our children? Tell me something I don't know.

E.'s been struggling with perimenopause related hot flashes for years. "Dear Body, You're hot. And that's not good. Stop it!"

As for me, I'm not sure what I'm going to say. I may use some of the audition cards from Dove to get my creative juices flowing. Questions like, "If a fairy princess could grant you 3 body wishes, what would they be?" and "If your underpants could talk, what would they say about you?" can really get you on a roll.

Whatever I do say, I know that it's got to be good. Red pom poms sewn on a doily just aren't going to cut it this time.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Our Children's Lives

I always feel slightly in the dark when I hear my mid-life friends discuss their mothers.

Having lost my own mother when I was young, I never quite get the nuances of the mature mother-daughter relationship. In fact, to my untrained ear, I could swear that many of my friends dis their mothers from time to time.

Oh they love their moms and would do anything for them. But more than once over coffee with a group, I hear one friend or another offer up a laundry list of what's wrong with her mother. "She always criticizes the way I cook/keep house/care for my kids. She just doesn't get it."

For a long time I felt like I was the one who didn't get it. These women were lucky to have a mom in the first place. And from where I stood, knowing some of these mothers myself, these daughters didn't seem to have it so bad. I just didn't understand where the friction was coming from.

Until baseball day.

I feel like I was given a rare glimpse into the mother-daughter relationship this week as I cheered my daughter and her baseball team on at their final tournament.

Now you should be aware that my daughter is the first person in our family to make it on a team of any sort.

When I was in high school, I hated gym class and dreaded any kind of team sport that I might have to play. When teams were picked for baseball, I was always chosen last, always placed far out in the field where the chances were slim to none of a ball reaching me and, on the rare occasion it did head my way, I'd pray with all my heart that some other, more competitive girl would save the day.

If that white knight failed to appear, I would make an effort to retrieve the ball and throw it to someone - anyone. Usually, it would fall a few feet away from me and, being the closest still, I would run, pick it up, and repeat the process two or three times until someone took pity on me.

So there I was, watching my daughter and reliving every single horrible minute of my own experience.

My daughter played pitcher. Every time she struck someone out, I was elated. Every time someone walked or got a hit, I got worried. Her coach didn't seem worried but I sure was.

I started giving her a little advice. "Focus, honey. Focus."

I began scanning the faces of her teammates. Were they getting mad? Were they going to shun her back at school?

I started suspecting the umpire worked for the other side. This was a conspiracy.

I became so worked up that it was all I could do to keep myself from calling a time out, walking on to the field and trying to give her an impromptu lesson. Given my status as mom/fan, I restrained myself.

As I continued to project my own experiences onto my daughter, I had a revelation. This was her life, not mine. I shouldn't be living it for her. She was actually having a good time. Her coach and teammates were happy. This was her experience and it was different from mine.

And that's when I thought about my friends and their moms. Could it be that some of the hostility comes from their mothers projecting themselves into their daughter's lives? Do all mothers forget that their daughter's experiences are not their own?

I'm not sure if I've struck it or not but just in case, I'm practicing now by letting my daughter play baseball her way so one day I'll be able to let her be a grown on her own terms.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Moving Out Of My Comfort Zone

Fashion diva? Not quite. Fashion victim? It depends on who you ask. Fashionable? Now we're getting closer.

I do love clothes. But this morning, my clothes didn't love me.

Rushing to make it in time for my daughter's baseball game, I threw on a pair of jeans and headed for the door.

It wasn't until later, sitting in traffic en route to the game, that I became aware of how my stomach was spilling over the waist band of my pants. I glanced down and saw rolls of flesh contorting my belly button into a smiley face.

Things got worse at the game. Giving a little jump for joy in the third inning when my daughter caught a pop fly, I noticed a distinct breeze playing around my mid-drift. It seems my Lycra infused top and my lowish cut jeans had had a falling out because one was going north and one was going south and I was showing way more belly than this 45 year old woman was ever meant to show.

Now this is far from the first time I've had a muffin-top experience. I've owned these jeans for more than a year. I've belted and tucked and hitched scores of times as I've struggled to keep my private zones from making an unwelcome appearance and my tummy from jiggling like out of control jello on steroids.

But for whatever reason, this morning was the last straw.

I opened my mouth and declared to no one in particular, "I want comfortable clothes!"

Then almost immediately I clapped my hand over my mouth in shock as the realization of what I had just said hit me.

For me, comfort has more often than not equated to letting myself go. "Comfort" calls to mind elastic waistbands on polyester pants paired with brown or black (so they don't show the dirt, of course) sensible shoes.

I'm the woman who has permanently damaged her baby toe because the gorgeous beige pumps were on sale and only half a size too small. I'm the woman who wore thong underware long before it became fashionable in an all out attempt to avoid VPLs (Visible Panty Lines).

My smarter (read less vain and shallow) friends have had the comfort thing figured out for some time. But not I. When forced to choose between fashion and fit, I'm embarrassed to say that fashion won more often than not.

But after today's revelation, I'm making a move towards the other camp. And while I'm not yet ready for the polyester and elastic brigade, I will be on the lookout for some savvy marketers who can give me the best of both worlds - comfy clothes that make me look great.