"What are you doing about your wrinkles?" my younger sister asked. We were in her bathroom - I'd taken the kids to visit their cousins during the holidays - busy getting ready for bed, and she was rubbing some sort of night cream around her eyes.
I didn't know what to say. Have that many years passed, and rather than trying to spit toothpaste on each other as we shared a sink, we're having conversations about aging?
"Nothing," I replied with some sort of defiance. I know it comes down to the fact that I'd rather sleep for an extra half hour than actually have to spend that time blow drying my hair and putting on makeup in the morning but I'm hopeless when it comes to things like this.
At 41 the only beauty regime I've ever had is running a comb through my wet hair, cleaning my teeth and slapping on a bit of Oil of Ulan if I remember. The only make up I've ever bought was for my wedding 13 years ago and I'm still using it.
My sister is a different story. For a period there her hair was a different colour every time I saw her, she turned eye liner into an art and she's found a great shade of fake tan that doesn't look too fake at all. In the right light.
But me? Forget it.
I realised early on that I’d never be one of those women with style, those sort of women who can throw on a white t shirt and a pair of jeans and look fantastic, those women whose hair always looks like they stepped out of salon, whose nails are always that perfect shade of pink. So I sort of gave up and concentrated more on making my personality stylish. Somedays I'm not sure that's worked either.
But when my sister posed this question it got me to thinking that perhaps now is the time to start doing something. In the past year or so I've read a couple of great books that put the whole aging thing into perspective. Helena Frith Powell wrote a great book, To Hell in High Heels, about her year long quest to look more youthful and Maggie Alderson's Gravity Sucks was a collection of her columns about her own experience with the whole idea of getting older.
These two women are the sort of women I'd like to be, stylish and clever, with busy lives and families. If they can find time to search out the right cream, the right product, maybe I should too.
And yet, in somewhat of a quest to stay youthful I went to The Bangles concert the other night and there was a woman there who had the most amazing grey hair. The cut was short and funky and she looked great. I wanted that hair.
But then The Bangles came out and I wanted to be Susanna Hoff, still the sexiest brunette around. She'll be 50 in January but she was still swishing that long hair, wearing a little mini dress with bare legs, legs that were athletic and toned and brown. When they opened the show with Hazy Shade of Winter I let out a little scream and could have been 17 again. But then people rushed to the front and formed a little mosh pit and my friend and I couldn't see a thing so we decided to move to some empty seats further back where we could see, and it wasn't so loud. We decided that we were getting old but enjoyed the concert immensely.
Maybe that's what it's all about. Still being at the concert but being a few rows further back.
On the way home, with Walk Like an Egyptian still going through my brain, I thought perhaps the answer to my sister's initial question should have been, "Accepting them."