I have a routine. It starts after we get home from a walk and my infant daughter is down for her nap. It goes: shower, face care, lotion (start from the feet/legs and move up). It is my time to myself; a time of quiet in my house. Though, today, I had a thought as I was putting my face cream on. LOL, yeah. That.

When did I start worrying about this? When did I start worrying about wrinkles and the like or how old I look? I always thought I’d be above such things, as pretentious teenager as that sounds.

I’ve noticed, over the past couple of weeks, that sometimes I will catch my reflection in the mirror and I look…different. I cannot quite describe it but my face looks different to me. Softer was the word that came to me when I first noticed it. I sort of felt like I was looking at someone far classier and more graceful than I have ever been (read: felt). Now I find that I start looking for her, for that face that looks like not my own but, apparently, is my own. It has to be. I don’t think any of the four mirrors in our house are magic, in any case. I search for that face now, search without searching for her. I look to catch her in the corner of my eye. When I do spy her, I try to keep very still and just look, for fear I’ll scare her off. It’s in those quiet moments that I find her lovely, find her to be…what I always wanted to be.

And there she is, in my mirror. And I can find her. Me. Sometimes. So, I guess, thank God for routine.