At the risk of sounding catty, may I — a firmly entrenched middle-aged broad — make a few suggestions to the manufacturers of moisturizing products routinely aired in television commercials?

Use real life women, and then we shall decide if your products work.

Use my friend, the sports photographer who, despite her best efforts, has more sun damage than she’d like.

Use those of us horse chicks with our famous farmer tans that include that stripe of red neck from forgetting to wear a collared polo shirt.

Use nurses who, from washing their hands repeatedly before entering a patient’s room, have skin as raw as a filet of chicken, and faces that show the stress of 12-hour shifts etched around their eyes and mouths.

But don’t, I repeat, don’t, show me a particular red-headed actress whose expression has been frozen for the past decade from Botox, along with being plumped up with injectable fillers, and then tell us we can look just like her if we use Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair from the CVS.

We may be desperate for smooth skin, but we’re not complete idiots. And if you insist on keeping her on as your spokesmodel, at least let us see her first thing in the morning, because now that she’s 51, she’s probably scoring no more than three hours of sleep a night (ask your wife, guys. She’ll be happy to explain that one after she turns the thermostat down to 58 degrees).

No professional lighting either — for heaven’s sake, any of us can look blemish-free when lit by a rack of deer hunting spotlights. That light is so hot she looks like a film negative.

I saw her earlier films. The woman has freckles!

(I’ll take a saucer of milk, please).

I guess I should be grateful for beauty commercials, regardless of how fictitious they are. They’re actually a nice break from the drug commercials that promise to improve your breathing, erectile dysfunction and urinary incontinence (not necessarily in that order). Pay no mind to the side effects, although fair warning, guys: that little blue pill will be of little consequence with the ladies if simultaneously you find yourself vomiting with double vision.

I don’t care how virile you might feel, it’s not a turn-on. And take off your black socks while you’re at it.

At the end of the day, it’s up to us, isn’t it? Yes, we’re bombarded by ads, but we don’t have to buy their products, do we?

I can simply use what I normally buy for my skin: whatever’s on sale, whether it be a bottle of Slick 50, or swiping some of the coconut oil meant for the horses’ hooves on my face.

And Paul, well, Paul doesn’t use any of that stuff.

Although I wish he’d buy some Cialis.

Not for the drug, mind you, but for the clawfoot bathtubs. That’s worth it, right there.