I blew off my 30-year high school reunion this weekend. My friends kept texting, "OMG where are you?!" and I just… ignored them. Felt like a total coward but also – what was I supposed to say? "Yeah, sorry, my face looks like it aged ten years for every one since we last saw each other and I don't have the cash for those injectables you all clearly do"? Because that's the fucking truth. My whole feed is just these women my age – 50! – looking like they're still in their late 30s. Like, not just good for their age, but genuinely young. And I look at myself, especially around the eyes and mouth, and it's like… desert dry riverbeds. Cracks and lines and just a general droop. I scroll through their reunion photos and it's a sea of smoothed foreheads and plumped cheeks. All smiles and not a single crow's foot in sight. And I'm not even mad at them – like, get your procedures, ladies, if that's what makes you happy. I just feel… left behind. My freelance gig dried up a bit this month, so any extra cash I had went straight to bills. No benefits, no regular paycheck, it's just a constant hustle. So when I looked in the mirror last week, trying to psyche myself up to go, I just saw dollar signs. Like, how much would it cost to look like *that*? Ten grand? Twenty? More? And I just don't have it. Not even close. So I stayed home. Watched some shitty Netflix docuseries about cults. Drank cheap wine. My kid came in asking why I wasn't out with my friends and I just mumbled something about being tired. It felt easier than explaining I was too self-conscious to show my real face – my old face – to people who looked like they’d found the fountain of youth. It's not like I'm depressed, not really, but there's this… dull ache. Like I missed out on something important, but I also know I made the right choice for me. Right now. Maybe in ten years, I'll have won the lottery or some shit and can show up looking like a Kardashian. One can dream.