Letting myself go

I ate two meat pies for dinner last night (does it make it less gross that I made them myself and they were kinda sorta smallish?)(one wasn’t quite enough, two was way too much, but I have trouble with the concept of leaving food on my plate after being berated as a child about the poor, starving Biaafran kids) and washed them down with a glass of cheap white, while wearing trakkie daks and ugg boots.

I keenly anticipated the kids going to bed so I could finally watch the finale of Downton Abbey and the passing of Matthew. I switched on the electric blanket in anticipation of a nice, civilised 9.30pm bedtime.

I think I’ve officially let myself go. Or gotten old. Or both.

Actually, I’m calling it … both.

Letting myself go and getting old are quite relaxing in their own ways. NOT letting myself go and clinging to youth is tempting but daunting. Too much like hard work.

Now, if I could just get my head around being OK with what letting myself go means for my clothing size everything would be hunky dory. But it still niggles at me that the only skirts and pants in my wardrobe that I can currently wear are elasticised ones.

It’s soooooo politically incorrect to say but I yearn to be thin and secretly hope, when my belly gets a bit gripey, that my enzyme disorder might be returning . Because, yep, that’s the only way I can see myself showing the self-restraint and nausea to cut the carbs.

After working in social media for the past four months, I write those words with a certain fear. I know how vicious the judgements and opinions of my fellow women can be.

But I’m brutal in my honestly and I call it how it is and … I’m too old to change now …

I mean, let’s face it, I’m middle-aged.

MIDDLE-AGED!

FARKING MIDDLE-AGED!!

How did that bloody happen? That was never supposed to happen. Being young felt like it would last forever. It stretched endless before me. Until one day it didn’t. Until one day I woke up all stiff every morning and shuffled off to the bathroom for the third time since I went to bed, pulled on your ugg boots and reluctantly greeted another day.

I’ll stop now. Best I stop.

I actually have a pretty charmed life. Seriously, I am blessed. Just a teeny bit shitty about being 45. And fat.

That is all.