What is wrong with this woman? I’d like to know. Somebody with the gall to tell Terry Gross—in Wednesday’s interview—that she, Amanda Peet, thinks constantly about getting a face lift? That she worries about the sagging? What could be weirder, more boneheaded?

Can she even see past her nose? Who does she think she is? Who does she think she’s talking to?

I was at a function, she tells Terry. A premiere party. And when I was leaving, an older, quite beautiful woman across the room stood up and yelled “Amanda!” She made a beeline for me and sort of opened her arms and said “I love”—and I thought she was going to say “your performance.” Instead she said “your wrinkles.”

No, responds Terry. Not like she’s shocked by that word wrinkles. More like, aghast at Amanda’s fatuousness.

I love that you haven’t had a face lift, says Terry. I love that you’ve kept your face.

Terry tells Amanda, A face is such an important tool. You have such really nuanced facial expressions in your acting. People who have facial surgery have limited movement because their skin is pulled so tight.

Amanda talks about the fear any successful actor faces. The success won’t last. The roles won’t keep coming. Then there’s a whole new level of doom when the actor grows old and wrinkly.

You know what kills me about that? says Terry. There are so many people who are older. It’s one of the biggest demographics—

Amanda laughs.

Considerably older than you are, says Terry. If you want to live a life, you’re going to be older, even if you’re not, yet. You’re what, in your early fifties?

Fifty-four, says Amanda.

There’s so many people that age, says Terry. It’s a demographic.

She knows, it seems, not to knock all the wind out of puffed persons’ sails. But she’s good at punching holes. And I think when she dies a little of me will die, too (unless, of course, I go first). Terry is my goddess.

I understand Amanda’s problem. Oh I do. The picture-taking session I held not long ago with Great Grandbaby, just him and me, I had to discard all but one of the photos. I couldn’t bear to not delete me, expunge for all time the bad takes.

Worn out as I was, I’d gone over in the afternoon because the mother had a clinical and the father wasn’t even getting the diapers hung on the line and he wanted, also, to take a bike ride. So I jiggled. I patted. I sang gaspy snatches to pure little precious. I slumped, because oh, was I shot. And, off and on, I kept trying with my phone for the perfect scene. I kept getting instead, besides the infant, my pouchy old-woman self—the Terry Gross truth. What was I thinking? I wonder. Can I even see past my nose?