By Karla DeLuca

 There was some concern expressed as to whether a trip out of town would be an inconvenience, because, as the man pointed out, "you have children at home."

 That was true. But as they're 19 and 24 years old, I said, they're old enough to take care of themselves. Or should be. At least, well enough to stay by themselves overnight.

 Although I appreciated the thought that I was young enough to have children of an age that required constant supervision, it pointed out the fact that my children really are grown up — getting older, in fact.

 My daughter, Amanda, turns 25 years old today. I don't want to spoil it by telling her that today isn't just the first day of the rest of her life, it's the first day of "getting older."

 I don't remember a lot of birthdays, but I do remember the 25th — it was the day I realized that I was going to get old.

 According to an article on skin care, I was already well on my way. Apparently age 25 is the point where one's youth officially ends, according to the article, on "How to care for skin 25 and older."

 Age 25 and older? Since when did the 25th birthday become the first day of Old Age?

 I had thought, naively, it appeared, that I would have at least 10 or 15 years of travel in an upwardly direction before the downhill slide began. Wasn't age 40 the traditional "over the hill" start time?

 I was still waiting for my skin to clear up, which I thought was imminent. Now I realized that even if I did manage to stop the breakouts, it really wouldn't matter, because decay was about to set in.

 Or could it be that wrinkles were using the acne for cover? Maybe underneath all that Clearasil and concealer, my skin was cracking like a mud flat. It certainly looked that way, every time I used that clay mask, trying to eliminate the oily skin that was supposed to be the root of all my problems.

 But according to the article, skin must be kept moist. That made sense — mud doesn't crack until it dries out. But it's also true that oil and water don't mix.

 Neither does oil and moisturizer, which I dutifully purchased and tried to use in an effort to keep my dewy complexion. Not that I ever had a dewy complexion. Sweaty, maybe, but not dewy. So, another failure there.

 About the only information I found useful was advice to avoid the sun, wear sunscreen and stay out of a tanning booth, which I pledged to do religiously.

 Admittedly, this was something I did anyway, and had been doing since I was a teenager. I didn't stay out of the sun because I was afraid of someday looking like an old leather boot or getting cancerous lesions or age spots. These were the good old days, when a tan was considered "healthy."

 I stayed out of the sun because I hated to "lay out." I couldn't stand it for more than 20 minutes. It was hot and boring. Plus, slathering on baby oil mixed with iodine was not only tedious, it was messy and greasy. And 20 minutes of sunbathing required at least two hours of preparation and washing up.

 Like I said, these were the good old days, before blow dryers and flat irons. It took two hours of washing, rolling, then sitting under a dryer to get my hair back to normal, and for what? A sun-kissed look? I'd settle for a shimmer of moonbeams.

 The advice in that article appeared to work. Two years after reading it, I was mistaken for a 14-year-old — by two 14-year-olds. At age 36, I was mistaken for my husband's daughter. At age 40, a teacher mistook me for a 7th grader. I was 44 when a nurse asked me to leave my teenage daughter's room, because she thought I was her friend, not her mother.

 Apparently, following those tips hadn't just held back time, it was reversing it — for a while, anyway.

 I suppose it's possible that I could be mistaken for my 25-year-old daughter's friend today, if it turns out that Mr. Magoo was based on a real-life character, but I don't think it's likely. Older sister maybe.

 Turning 25 probably won't set off any alarm bells for Amanda. She's not worried about getting older, she doesn't give a second thought about fine lines or crow's feet or wrinkles.

 After all, if I'm not getting older, neither is she.

Amanda's Strawberry Cake

1 box white cake mix

1 (3 oz.) box strawberry gelatin

3 eggs, well beaten

1/2 c. vegetable oil

1/2 c. milk

1 (10 oz.) box frozen sliced strawberries, thawed and drained )reserve 1/2 cup juice for icing)

1 tsp. vanilla

1 tsp. red food coloring

 Mix together cake mix and gelatin. Blend in eggs, oil, milk, strawberries and vanilla. Pour into a greased and floured sheet cake pan. Bake according to directions on the pan.

 Icing:

1 lb. powdered sugar, sifted

1/2 c. butter, melted

1/2 c. strawberry juice

1 tsp. vanilla

 Mix together and pour over cooled cake.

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Karla DeLuca is editor and publisher of The Daily Sentinel. Her e-mail address is kdeluca@coxnews.com.