Not that I’m a major job-hopper, but I’ve definitely switched gears a few times. And at least with one place of employment, I came and went with abandon.

Thus, I’ve amassed a tidy stack of work ID cards. And for a reason that now escapes me (other than the fact that I’m obsessed with god-awful pictures of myself), I’ve hung on to most of them. When I’m feeling masochistic, I splay them out like a sinister deck of cards, from my 20s, to my 30s, to my….you get the picture.

This week, because I’m pitching in at a magazine for a spell, I acquired a new one. And although I didn’t even attempt to smile while the photo was being snapped (bad idea!), I was still shocked – shocked - at the end result: the incontrovertible evidence that I need to run to the nearest highly credentialed, seriously board-certified derm or plastic surgeon.

You’ve heard of nasolabial folds – those grooves that bookend your schnoz like an evil set of parentheses? After decades of not giving them a second thought, I now have them in spades.

In short, I require a filler, be it Juvéderm or some other type of hyaluronic-acid based formula, such as Restylane. That’s just a straight-up fact.

But until I can squirrel away the pocket cash for that, I can probably take a few smaller steps to make myself feel a little better. Like dusting off my NuFace contraption, which has been languishing in the cabinet under the bathroom sink ever since I took up P90X and decided I’m incapable of doing more than one thing at a time to make myself look like a mom-babe.

And since tomorrow is Beauty Armoire Monday, I can also conduct a search for one of those facial “volumizers” that temporarily plump up your mug.

Or…I can just refuse to look at that new ID and get on with my happy little President’s Weekend. Bingo!

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