It's freaky how age creeps up on us. One day we're getting married, building careers, having children, and the next, we're looking in the mirror and a wrinkled face with a turkey neck is looking back at us. When did that happen?
At a certain point, you just have to embrace it, and laugh as you redefine your relationship with the mirror.
That's why we love Delia Ephron's piece from the November issue of O, The Oprah Magazine. Ephron -- the screenwriter and producer whose credits include You've Got Mail, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants and Bewitched, among others -- shares the 13 ways she looks at her body in the mirror.
Her humorous piece is part of the magazine's special report on body image called "Better Than Beautiful?", which looks at healthy body image in the era of unlimited options to "fix" every flaw with knives, needles and lasers.
"Val Monroe [O, The Oprah Magazine's beauty director] called and asked if was I interested in writing 13 ways of looking at my body based on a Wallace Stevens poem called "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,"" Ephron, 66, told Huff/Post50.
"The evening before I got that phone call, I passed someone in a restaurant who wasn't wearing a bra who was my age," she said. "That was it for me. I said: I'm wearing a bra the rest of my life. I'm wearing a bra to sleep. I'm never not wearing a bra."
Ephron's piece is a bit of comic relief among the mix of viewpoints in the magazine, including those of O readers, Dominique Browning and an anonymous CEO who has had 10 plastic surgeries.
"I believe everyone should do what makes them feel best," Ephron said about plastic surgery. "I'm glad it's all available. I'm glad we can dye our hair. I really am."
Aside from hair dye, we asked Ephron if humor was her secret to aging gracefully.
"That's my secret to dealing with everything," she said.
Definitely not naked from the back.
Downward. At my feet. Crimson nails poking out from under a sheet, saying hello. Very sexy.
As I catch a reflection, walking by a shop window. Unexpected encounters with oneself are always risky: Am I slumping? Am I prepared for a candid glimpse? But my legs never let me down. It seems unfair that after a certain age, a woman with good legs can't walk on her head.
With a dog on my lap.
With a scarf around my neck. The only good thing about whiplash, a friend of mine said after she was rear-ended, is that you get to wear something that conceals your neck.