"It's okay," I consoled myself, kneading Coppertone (SPF 4, so shoot me) into my poochy belly and spider-veined thighs as I lay on the lawn behind my Battery Park City apartment building. "You're 43 and just had a kid, for Pete's sake."

This was the latest volley in a game I call Blame It on the Baby. Trailing clumps of hair in your wake? Baby. Lake-size dark patches encircling your eyeballs? Baby. Extra five pounds welded to your midsection? "Baby, baby, baby," I mutter all day long, à la Oscar-winning Reese to Joaquin in Walk the Line.

While I have lots of company, I belong to a specific subspecies of Manhattanite: The waaay older first-time mom. Sure, that 57-year-old faith healer with the new set of twins has me beat by miles, but you get the drift—my heyday is behind me.

Or is it?

An hour after Project Coppertone, I headed to the nearby multiplex with hubby to see an epic ode to personal transformation, The Devil Wears Prada. Hoping against hope that the cinematic version would outshine the book of the same name (it did), I was struck anew by the notion that, perhaps with a little elbow grease and a fleet of gurus, I too could get it together in a really superficial way.

So that's what I intend to do, problem body part by problem body part.

But first the ground rules. Any endeavor I undertake, whether it's a service I get or some horrible bit of exercise I subject myself to, must meet some of the following criteria:

1. Many people need to notice and comment favorably upon it, because (duh) why bother, otherwise?
2. It has to be grounded in reality—i.e., it must be a process or procedure one of my fellow WOFTMs (Way Older First-Time Moms) can actually see herself partaking in.
3. And—the ultimate litmus test for any spoiled-rotten beauty editor—it has to be something I'd spend my own cold hard cash on.

Here's an example of a service that recently flunked this test big-time: Eyelash extensions. The hopes were high; in the ramp-up weeks to my appointment, I wouldn't shut up about them. Man, they were gonna change my life.

But sadly, my stint on a tricked-out massage table in a Hell's Kitchen eyelash-extension emporium for what seemed like (and was) hours was all for naught. According to my tormentor (kidding—she's great; her name is Maret, and she hangs her hat at Alcone Uptown), I'm just not a good candidate. This is because my eyes teared the entire time, preventing dear Maret from applying a full set of flutters.

Upon my arrival home considerably past dinnertime, my super-supportive baby nurse immediately proclaimed, "You can't see them at all." After putting my head under the harshest reading lamp in our pad, hubby said he spied a few. Call me crazy, but I think he was just being nice.

Still, I will persevere. To do so, I've drawn up a never-in-a-million-years, ballpark wish list. Wherever possible, I've sought out beauty role models who are either moms, old, or—ka-ching!—old moms.* In no particular order, I'm after:

• Hair like Kate Moss's
• Legs like Elle MacPherson's*
• Abs like Heidi Klum's
• Arms like Uma Thurman's
• Smile like Kate Beckinsale's
• Energy like Madonna's*
• Tough-but-cool overall vibe of Patti Hansen*

In the coming months, we'll see if I get anywhere near any of this. All I know is that a year from now, I don't want to find myself cowering in my bikini again, sobbing over my lost youth and beauty. And if I, or any of my gurus, can help my sister WOFTMs feel better when they gaze in the mirror, brava.