I love my bathroom. It has cream-and-green bamboo wallpaper, and a free-standing tub with a tray for soap, shampoo and the occasional glass of wine. An antique dresser provides storage, and the window overlooks a field where I can watch Widdle splitting wood.

It's my happy place -- with one glaring design error. I hung a large, gilt-framed mirror above the vanity, directly across from the tub. Thus, I see every inch of me when I step out and towel off. Just this week I noticed that my thighs are creeping down to my knees, which are themselves racing to my ankles. If this keeps up, I'll be wearing a bra around my hips.

Anyway, it's my sanctuary. And Widdle usually doesn't disturb me unless it's urgent. The other night, however, he got bored when I stayed in there for an hour.

"What are you doing?" he asked, through the door.

"Beauty treatments," I replied, which usually sends him scuttling away.

This time, however, he said something I didn't quite catch, and cautiously slid the door open.

I yelped, "HEY!" as he stared, pop-eyed, for a millisecond. Then he silently closed the door and scuttled.

Who can blame him? Even I can't explain why, at 10:15 on a Friday night, I was wearing a green clay face mask while vigorously slapping a twisted face towel, soaked in warm salt water, against my neck and jaw. Fwap, fwap, FWAP!!

This is where vanity and YouTube will take you. Just search "wrinkle remedies" and BAM! Eleventy-billion clips pop up, all promising to restore the glow of youth. Some nights I surf for hours, and I'm willing to try anything.

I think I speak for many women when I say that my face looked fine until my mid-50s, when jowls came to town. I pulled and jiggled and decided I could live with them. (Pro tip: High turtlenecks make you look even jowlier, so wear the blouse.)

Then I turned 62 -- and somewhere around that age, the dime drops. That's when a woman gets up, looks in the mirror and says, "Why, hello, Mother. WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY MIRROR?!?"

It happens just that fast. One minute you're fine - a few crows' feet and sun spots, but recognizable as who you are and, perhaps more importantly, who you were.

Then one day your reflection is a wrinkled woman with a neck that looks like corduroy, and it's just all so confusing. No wonder we search for the fountain of youth. (Meanwhile, my husband, at 69, is a distinguished-looking silver fox, which is infuriating.)

Here's a list, in no particular order, of the lotions and potions that have graced my vanity now and in the recent past: Skin-balancing toner, serums, scrubs, oils, tinctures, cleansers, Retin-A, rejuvenating masks, tightening masks, moisturizing masks, fish oil masks, clay masks, cucumber masks (apparently I have a mask fetish), a micro-needle pen, pore cleansing strips, Vitamin E, Vitamin C, emu oil and snail jelly.

I have products made in Korea, California, Japan, Australia and Brooklyn (small-batch "facial replenishing oil" whose odor drove Widdle from the house. Not the room, the HOUSE.)

My latest trick is free: The salt-water slapping method, which is supposed to wake up the muscles and fascia in your neck and make it look smoother. It actually does, for about 15 minutes. Then the corduroy comes back and all you have to show for it is a cold, wet, salty towel.

And a speechless husband who just wanted to know if we had Jell-O.

Julie R. Smith, who's not aging gracefully, can be reached at [email protected].