“That’s all wrong,” Liz says, sitting back in her chair, her plump lips in a pout to express her disapproval. “I noticed it right away, but I just wasn’t sure if it was your natural face shape.”

Liz is a medical doctor who shifted gears from her previous specialty and has a private practice in LA doing non-surgical cosmetics. She’s a friend of a friend who joined us for dinner at Mawita in Snowmass Base Village the other night. Over some of the most delicious fried plantains I’ve ever had in my life and a frozen margarita that tasted like a beach vacation that was shaken not stirred, I grilled her about her current profession.

I have never been shy about my love for this stuff: for Botox and fillers and lasers and basically anything that doesn’t involve actual surgery. I started when I was 38 and have felt like I became a member of a special face preservationists club. Believe me, I know how obnoxious that sounds, especially to those who couldn’t even imagine paralyzing their facial muscles for sport. All I can tell you is all it takes is a few pricks, and when I wake up the next day, I get to greet a face that looks the same as it did 10 years ago.

It’s true that as I get older, things get a little more complicated. It starts to feel like fixing a leak with a Band-Aid, only to have five more leaks spring up in the span of three to six months. As you get older, you need more — and more often. Your face and skin start to change in ways you never would have expected back when you were in your 20s complaining about trying to lose another 5 pounds before your best friend’s wedding, once again without a date.

I have to say I feel better now, in my early 50s, than I ever have (even in my 20s). Part of it is maturity, of accepting myself for who I am and — as weird as it feels to even say it out loud — to truly love myself. I attribute most of this to my husband, whose love is as absolute as the air we breathe and about as subtle as a siren. He’s never bought into the societal standards for beauty. He goes so far as to think Angelina Jolie is ugly, to balking at too-skinny girls and, other than a penchant for feisty redheads (he loves Amy Adams and Emma Stone), has never once even alluded to the attractiveness of other women.

Another big part of this long-awaited self-acceptance is becoming a mother and understanding the true meaning of unconditional love. From the time your baby is born and latches onto your breast or squeezes your finger tight with a tiny little hand, your spirit is buoyed by the realization that this human being loves you right out of the gate. You don’t earn your child’s love, you nurture it — and then teach them how to give it back to others.

Since Levi was born, I have always mothered by instinct, never subscribing to any specific parenting philosophy. From the outset, my instinct was to take the best possible care of myself so I could be the best for my child.

Which brings me back to Liz. Liz is perfectly preserved, like an artifact behind glass. She could be anywhere between 35 and 60, her skin devoid of any visible pores, uneven skin tone or even the slightest wrinkle.

Liz proceeds to tell me (only because I asked) that the “work” I’ve had done is all wrong. She starts telling me all these horror stories like how if someone injects you too close to your nose and hits some random artery, you can go blind. Blind!

I give her my whole spiel about how I try to take a minimalist approach and would never do this, that and the other thing, and I for sure wouldn’t go under the knife for my own vanity, that I just do enough but not too much. “I love my fat cheeks,” I point out, pinching them for emphasis. “I mean, I’m pretty lucky to still have those.”

“You don’t want fullness there,” she says. “You want it up here,” and points to the area above the cheekbones. She tells me the idea is to lift and pull to the sides as opposed to having everything full in the center like I do.

Despite my well-adjusted attitude about my body image, I now find myself staring down the rabbit hole of how to age gracefully. My conversation with Liz resonates because I realize it’s the same scenario as society dictating what is considered beautiful when it comes to an aging face. But when is enough too much? Where do I draw the line between vanity and foolishness?

I think the answer is simple: Fat cheeks is where it’s at.

Ali Margo is loving all this powder. Email your love to alisonmargo@gmail.com.