Starting in her fifties, my mom–a little vain, never cocky–would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and pull the skin on her face taut. “If only I could tape it back behind my ears,” she sighed.

I’ve started doing that too. 

Even though I learned about imaginary facelift tape from my mother, if she were alive to see me now, she would tell me I look great, no alterations necessary. My mother’s adoration made it impossible for her to see her children’s imperfections. It was as if the hormones that cause a mother to bond with her newborn lodged behind her eyes, erasing acne and buck teeth, and making her daughters appear, to her, cover-girl beautiful. Anyone meeting me after getting my mother’s unfiltered opinion would have been disappointed to see that, actually, I was not better looking than Farrah Fawcett. The only time my mom doubted my appearance was when I opted for an asymmetrical haircut in the mid-eighties. Even then, she tempered her critique with love. “Hmm,” she said as she studied me. “It’s…different. You’re such a pretty girl, you shouldn’t distract from that with a crazy haircut. Luckily, hair grows.”

My dad viewed his daughters’ appearance as an accomplishment. “I’m proud of you girls,” he would say when an anniversary or a milestone birthday gave us a reason to dress up. My dad wasn’t (entirely) superficial. Before parenting magazines reminded fathers that their approval improved their daughters’ self-esteem, my father expressed pride in almost anything his daughters achieved–good grades, career success, parallel parking on the first try. That we cleaned up well was another in a long list of qualities that gave him a sense of satisfaction in his girls. 

I would love to see myself the way my parents did, but their over-the-top praise did nothing to alter what I suspect is a pretty standard arc of self-esteem for non-narcissistic American women. In my tweens and teens, I compared myself to the clear-skinned, button-nosed Phoebe Cates on the cover of “Seventeen” and wanted to hide in my room, blasting Barry Manilow on my stereo, until I left for college. In my 20s and 30s, when, let’s face it, everyone is gorgeous, I cut myself some slack. I was not immune to my flaws, but at least when my hair and makeup were right, I was kind enough to myself to think I could pass for cute. In my 40s, if I had a minute to consider my appearance between a busy career, young kids and old parents, I thought my looks were fine, “for someone my age.” Now I find myself avoiding being photographed unless I am wearing sunglasses, and avoiding mirrors all together. Ignorance is bliss.

When I see my face in a mirror, I can’t deny the crows feet, jowls, and drooping eyelids, or the recent and disturbing appearance of a line across my forehead that looks like something Dr. Frankenstein sewed onto his monster. 

It’s not just my face. If I dare look in a mirror while not wearing a bra, I notice that my breasts no longer reside somewhere near the upper part of my ribcage. I search for them as if they were a lost contact lens, head bowed, scanning the bathroom counter, the sink, behind the toilet. That’s when I realize that thanks to pregnancy, breastfeeding, and gravity, my boobs have oozed down my chest and taken up residence near my belly button. 

Surgery could erase the sags and wrinkles on my face and return my breasts to their original location. I’m too frightened and cheap to go that route. Fortunately, there are ways to fight time’s footprints that don’t involve anesthesia, blood loss or a second mortgage. 

To maintain my belief that my breasts aren’t stacked on top of my stomach like sandbags in preparation for a hurricane, I invest in girdles shapewear, which incrementally improves the way I look fully clothed. “Take that,” I say to the mirror, as I slather concealer on pretty much my entire face. When the creases get so deep the concealer falls into them instead of covering them up, l make an appointment with Dr. T. for a little Botox. My delightful dermatologist, who has unnaturally plump lips and a lineless forehead, tells me how much of a difference her needles have made after every appointment. And I believe her. Until I get home. Then I look in that cruel bathroom mirror and realize how much skin remains to tape behind my ears. But when I consider that without Dr. T’s syringes I might look like a Shar Pei, I figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. And when the bill comes and my husband asks what it was for, I invoke the don’t ask don’t tell philosophy of staying happily married.

The most effective, non-surgical solution to my battle against loose skin might be to remove all of the mirrors from my house. Thanks to our fearful Yellow Lab, Franny, I’ve already begun that process. One night, shortly after we adopted her, we left the formerly mistreated dog, whose tail was always so far between her legs we forgot she had one, alone in my daughter’s room where she felt safe. When I opened the door to check on her, I saw blood splattered walls and a chaotic maze of bloody paw prints covering the floor, like Billy’s footprints in a demonic version of Family Circus. Franny had been frightened by her reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of my daughter’s door. She charged it, shattering the glass and pricking her nose. (Apparently, dog noses bleed a lot.) 

Franny’s nose healed and, I’m happy to report, Franny recovered from whatever trauma befell her before we adopted her. Her tail has come out from between her legs and she is not afraid when she sees herself reflected in the French doors at night. 

In contrast to Franny, I have grown more afraid of my reflection over the years, and never replaced the full length mirror.

I must take it on faith, therefore, that my footwear choices complement my outfits. And I wonder whether removing all of the mirrors in my house would result in a similar confidence borne of ignorance. If I didn’t look at myself in my bathroom mirror every day, would I be able to convince myself that I still look 35? Without mirrors in my house, could I disregard the flap of belly that refuses to be restrained behind the waistband of my jeans? Or forget about the crevasses covering my face like a Norwegian glacier?

In my mirrorless fantasy, I believe that I can attend my high school reunion and demonstrate to David C. that he should have asked me to the prom. My fantasy turns into a nightmare when I realize that in order to maintain the delusion that I look remarkably young for my age, I would have to avoid mirrors everywhere, not just in my own home. I imagine that on my way to my reunion, I stop at the airport restroom and, approaching the sink to wash my hands, I catch sight of myself in a mirror for the first time in years. The shock of seeing my wrinkled face causes my heart to stop, and someone has to use one of those portable defibrillators to zap me back to life. My would-be savior has to rip open my shirt to attach the pads to my chest. I imagine the good samaritan shouting, “Someone call 911 while I shock this very old woman to get her heart started! Wait! Where are her breasts? Oh my God! Why are they where her belly button is supposed to be? Should I bother to shock her? Maybe she has a DNR. I know I wouldn’t want to go on living like that. Help! I don’t know what to do!”  

Recognizing the risk a mirror detox poses to my personal safety, I reconsider removing the mirrors from my home. Instead, this old Shar Pei can learn a new trick in the lesson my parents intended to teach me with their loving praise. If I can see myself the way they saw me, I could toss out the collection of girdles shapewear and cancel my next appointment with Dr. T. But, even if I am too much like my mother–a little vain, never cocky–to take such drastic action, I can replace the full length mirror and include pictures of myself in photo albums, even if I’m not wearing sunglasses.