Each new birthday candle brings light of wisdom, glow of perspective

In a little over three weeks I turn 35 years old. Mathematicians will notice that's just five years away from an age to which Hallmark dedicates many racks and many cracks.

Does it scare me, inspire overwhelming doom or bring me to binge on Botox? Not one bit, yeah right and hell to the no.

I welcome age. I just wish all women could do the same.

For me, turning another year older has never been difficult. In fact, since hitting 30, the only difficult part has come with recognizing a compliment. And, no jokers, not because my vision has failed me. There's just something about "Wow, you don't look 34" that doesn't fully register as kindness. In fact, if I could tear the mask off that "compliment," I'd be willing to bet I'd find an insult twirling its greasy mustache under there.

Can't we just go back to "Wow, you look great"? That's a compliment we all know and love. A compliment that doesn't open the door for us just to kick us in the ass.

The thing is, I have no problem looking my age. But I do have a problem with someone telling me I should take shame in looking my age. Estee Lauder, Oil of Olay, Elizabeth Arden, La Mer and every other billionaire beauty brand ever created, I'm looking at you.

The beauty industry wants and needs women to loathe the aging process. Don't believe me? They invented the term "anti-aging."

With a stance like that, they may as well break into homes with balloon-flanked porches and do a little birthday cake bashing. They may as well picket outside nursing homes. You know, take the anti-aging full force. They certainly take the marketing full force.

There isn't a product the anti-aging label won't pull under its umbrella of deception. The battle has extended far beyond just crow's feet and smile lines. There's now anti-aging shampoo, anti-aging toothpaste, anti-aging nail polish, probably even anti-aging toilet paper -- "Go ahead. Wipe away the aging process."

It all sends the same message to women: Aging is bad.

And, women listen. Oh, do they listen.

Just meander on over to any of the ritzy charity events on the Strip and you'll see firsthand how well they listen. You may be tempted to prop some of these women on your knee and perform ventriloquism, but that's what successful anti-aging looks like in 2012.

Not that I can't appreciate a little maintenance. A few gray-concealing color jobs now and then. A dab of wrinkle-fighting cream here and there. Maybe one day I'll even surrender to an injection from time to time.

But there's a difference between maintenance and complete denial. The difference is usually the ability to smile, or fully form any other facial expression. The difference is a pair of eyebrows that still reside on your brow line and haven't relocated to your forehead. The real difference, though, is answering honestly and proudly when asked this: How old are you?

Ladies, if you have ever refused to answer that question, slap your over-moisturized hand. And, if you have ever lied when asked that question, slap your plumped-up pucker.

You resent the ageist world you live in, but no one reinforces it better than you. It's self-hate at its ugliest. But when an aging woman subscribes to an anti-aging philosophy, what else can you expect?

If women owned their age the way they owned a promotion, designer handbag, child on the honor roll or whatever it is that makes each of us beam individually, we'd have a lot less ventriloquist puppets scaring small children and a lot more fully realized smiles decorating faces.

How about treating our age the same way we did during our toddler days, not only verbally offering it, but bravely reiterating the number with our fingers? Or we could revisit the tween days when we broke our age right down to the fraction: 34 and 11/12ths, thank you very much! Even better, we could go back to the teenager days when we considered the girlfriend who looked the oldest, the luckiest.

Forget anti-aging, this is pro-aging. And, it's all about perspective.

The more candles my birthday cake wears, the more enriched my life becomes. I welcome age because I welcome wisdom. Let's put it this way, compared to my 25-year-old self, I'm looking like Yoda right about now.

With that point of view, I have no choice but to rejoice in 35 and eagerly anticipate 45.

Contact columnist Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter at @startswithanx.