I got the email a few months back. My high school reunion. The big one, twenty-five years. A quarter century, bloody hell. I laughed it off at first, just deleted the thing. Who cares, right? Most of those people I barely remembered, and the ones I did... well, let's just say we weren't exactly braiding each other's hair. I've been stateside for a decade now, settled, two kids in high school themselves, a decent job that pays the bills. My life is *fine*. Then the reminders started coming in. Facebook group popped up. Pictures from the old yearbook. There was me, all gangly limbs and bad hair, trying to look tough. And then the *current* photos. These women, my age, forty-something, and they look... amazing. Not just good for their age, but like they found the fountain of youth and are taking regular sips. Smooth foreheads, plump cheeks, not a wrinkle in sight. Like they’re all Benjamin Buttoning in real time. And I looked in the mirror. Hard. I mean, I know I'm not ugly. But the lines around my eyes, the way my skin just... sags a bit. It’s not just a few lines of experience, it’s like my face took a express train to fifty and decided to stay a while. All those years of sun exposure overseas, the stress, the sleepless nights. It’s etched on me. And I just felt this flat, dull ache. Not even anger, just… observation. My husband saw me looking at the computer, saw the reunion website open. "You going?" he asked, casually, sipping his coffee. I just shrugged. "Nah. Don't really see the point." And he didn't push it. He knows me. He knows I'm not the type to get all fluttery about old friends. But it wasn't about that. It was about *them*. About their perfectly unlined faces and my face, which looks like it's been through a damn war zone. Because it has, in a way. I think about the money they must spend, the time, the *effort*. All those injectables and fillers and treatments. And I think about what I've spent my money on. College funds. Mortgage. Emergency repairs on a beat-up car. And, you know, surviving. I’m not saying they didn’t work hard, but it’s a different kind of hard. A different kind of wear and tear. I’m just… tired. And my face shows it. And I didn't want to be the one who looks like she lost the lottery of aging. So yeah, I stayed home. Ordered a pizza, watched a crappy movie with the kids. It was fine. More than fine, actually. But the image of those perfectly smooth faces still floats around sometimes. And I wonder if I made the right call. Or if I just defaulted to the same old avoidance tactics I've used my whole life. Probably the latter. But what's done is done.