Some days I cry a lot.

Smelling the sweetness of a brisket baking in the oven to feed my children who were all home for the weekend or eating an overly salted fried egg on Sunday mornings-my late father’s breakfast special- makes me cry.

But last week, while reading  Elizabeth Renzetti’s poignant article in the Globe and Mail about the vanishing faces of older women in film and television, I cried for the fifth time that day. It was a stunning and well-written piece about women and aging- a subject that consumes me.

Renzetti applauds actress, Dame Judi Dench, as looking both old and gorgeous as “M” in the latest Bond flick, Skyfall. She also mentions how Queen Elizabeth, at 86, graces the new $20 bills looking just like herself, an older magnificent woman.

I love this quote by Renzetti :

“I worry sometimes that old women’s faces will pass out of the public imagination, that they’ll go the way of typewriters and Kodak film, to be replaced by some wind-tunnel simulacrum of youth.”

I am also worried about the vanishing faces of older women, but I’m equally obsessed about the whole “B” thing- “To botox or not To botox”. My mission in life right now is to resist the ranks of vanishing women, but can I do it?

I know it’s pathetic, but my favourite game to play is to point out whether or not someone has had botox done. Any woman who crosses my path- old friend or new,  neighbour or  complete stranger, is subject to my judgemental  speculations.

I guess it makes me feel good when I say “Look at Courtney Cox- she looks like a monster “ or when I bad mouth Madonna with  “ She only looks great only because of all the work she’s done”.  My most favourite botox citing happened last year when I sat at a fundraiser with a childhood friend who I couldn’t even recognize as my old bosom body because of her excellent boob lift, bleached blonde straightened hair and bountiful botox injections.

Why am I so obsessed with the “B” thing? Why am I so bothered by these women who can’t laugh with the same recklessness or raise their eyebrows as they once did in delight?

Maybe I’m just frightened that I too, may not be able to resist the urge to smoothen lovely lines etched on my face, filling in the years and then vanishing along with the others, erasing any mark of a life well lived.