Today, I have been, what is quite commonly said in the northern region of England - a reet lazy cow. To be honest, I just could not be arsed with writing dates in my diary or on the calender or fluffing pillows or arranging flowers like a good old housewife. I wasn't rushing around tending to the whims of my family and nor was I knocking on the neighbours doors and greeting them with the glad tidings of the new year. Ugh. Whilst every man and his dog declare good intentions and resolutions for the new year, I think "sod that for a game of soldiers". Me? I set myself goals daily so why should I be specific on the first day of the new year? I mean, its great to have these fresh ideas and exciting tasks but seriously, who the hell is going to know that you skipped day/week one, like my slovenly little self?
We (as in just Mark) took the crimbly decs down today. I slothed about in my dressing gown; practically stewing in my own stink and feeling my hair become increasingly greasy by the hour. I laid like broccoli, I moved only to use the conveniences and to open the fridge door to see what might fall in my mouth....even carbs. I have had 8 days off from dieting and don't I bloody well know it. I'm telling you, kids, it's carbs that make you sloth and veg and feel bloaty sicky yak. I cannot wait to get back on to high protein tomorrow (2nd Jan) and whip myself up to a lean machine in prep for my fortieth birthday in Feb. Prior to that little hoohaa I have a trip to LA but we all know that carbs don't exist in LA so I'm pretty safe that my journey to forty-dom will not be blighted by a single sliver of wheat or potato between now and then. My body is a temple.....blah blah blah.
I gotta say, this forty lark is playing on my mind. Whilst I often feel it, I certainly don't act it and often am told that I don't look it (obv from blind people). Its like a line is dividing my life. Ages 0-39 is young, vivacious and carefree. And then 40+ is marked as "passed it", "too old to start a new career" and "Jesus, get your roots done, love". I'm literally crapping myself. I'm thinking, you know, I can pretty much lie about my age to Joe Bloggs in the street but come airports (passport credentials) and job interviews (CV with credentials) - I'm going to get the raised eyebrow treatment and looks of pity or disdain. Will I have to wear longer skirts? Do I have to wear tan coloured pop socks? Shall I invest in polyester dresses? Will I have a midlife crisis?
Aaaaaah bollocks to it. Ive got roughly 38 days to chew it over but until then I'm clinging on to every last bit of my thirties with perhaps a bit of wild abandon thrown in for kicks and giggles.
Oh. And Flappy Blue Ears to you xx