First time high

I often think about how exciting it was being a child and how boring it can be being an adult. Everything just seemed so much bigger, better and more exciting when I was little. My first bike, my first train ride, my first outing to the fun fair… It all felt so big and magical.

Every ‘first’ comes with its own set of feelings and emotions.  Whether its fear or excitement, happiness or anxiety, or a mixture of feelings, the first time you experience something stays forever ingrained in your memory. Rarely can you ever recreate a first time and experience those exact same feelings or emotions. For me no fun fair, circus act, trip to the sea or kiss has ever come close in feelings to my very first experiences. 

  

I can remember so clearly the wonderment I felt the first time my mom took me to Joubert Park to see the Christmas lights, Santa and his elves, the beautiful lights in the trees and lamp posts all gloriously decorated and lit up. I think I was about 7, and this was probably the first time I ever felt high.  My eyes couldn’t take in enough.  Everything felt so magical. It was almost unreal.  A few years later we went back and I was so excited with the expectation that I would feel those same feelings of magic and wonder. But it just wasn’t the same. Everything was just as beautiful but I never felt that same sense of wonderment like the first time I was there. I walked around feeling somewhat cheated.

The first time I visited a circus I was awe struck. The lights, the music, the sparkling costumes – loads of anticipation. Dying to know what would happen next, I could at no stage remove my gaze from the ring. Every act had me spell bound - from the clowns, to the glittering trapeze artists, the strong men and the fire eater. I just couldn’t pull my gaze away from what was going on down in the ring.   I will never forget the feeling of dread when the fire eater brought a ball of fire on a stick closer and closer to his mouth – he tipped his head back, opened his mouth and swallowed the fire. I was certain something terrible would happen to him, but with the applause from the crowd and the smile on the performers face standing with what was a ball of fire now extinguished, I realised he was just fine and relief washed over me.  I left the circus that evening with another (but very different) feeling of being high.  For weeks I dreamt about the circus. I have been to many circus performances since then but have never experienced those exact same feeling. 

My first time ice-skating I was high on disbelief.  I was probably 5. I was struggling along when two figure skaters appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my hands and took me for a glide across the ice. I was dumb struck - Not with fear but with pure astonishment. It was such a remarkable feeling.  I couldn’t believe what had just happened.  

My first roller coaster ride: High on anticipation.

My first kiss: High on hormones.  

My first broken heart: High on vengeance   

My first flight: High on fear.  

My first interview: High on anxiety.  

My first car: High on accomplishment.

My first car accident: High on bewilderment

My first pay cheque: High on elation

My first childbirth: High on confusion

My first burnt meal: High on the smoke that filled the kitchen.

At 43 I’ve experienced many firsts; all with their own set of feelings and emotions, both good and bad.  But at 43 I suspect that I am running out of firsts. The older you get the fewer firsts you’re likely to experience. I mean honestly, all 43 year old's do is work so will my next first be my death? I can just picture it… The first time I died: High on nothing because I’m dead. (Oh Lord, please let my knickers be clean at the time of my death.)

Sadly, over the years I have come to realise that you cannot recapture the feelings of amazement, awe and fascination that you feel on a first experience. The high is never the same the second time around.  But recently something remarkable happened.

On a rather financially embarrassed day not so long ago, I was tidying out my clothing cupboards and came across an envelope. Curiously I opened it. The delighted surprise and pure joy I felt when I pulled out R600 in cold hard cash was the exact high I had experienced the first (and subsequent times) I had found money which I’d stashed away and forgotten about.  I am now contently convinced that no matter how many times I discover hidden money I will always feel those exact feelings - that exact high. It will always be precisely like the first time.

As soon as my financial situation changes I’m going to stash some cash and forget about it.  But for now, if you’ll excuse me….  I’m off to hide a R1 coin. 

For the time being I’ll be chasing very cheap highs! 

No Pain, no gain!

Derma Roller

I recently discovered Derma Rolling a.k.a Micro Needling or Collagen Induction Therapy.   It entails using this little device that’s covered in tiny needles which you roll over your problem area to stimulate collagen production.  Apparently collagen is what my face needs. The experts say that as you age your collagen production slows down causing wrinkles and saggy skin. 

Evidently, my collagen production ground to a screeching halt when I was 25.  If I even knew how to quantify collagen I’d estimate I currently need about a pint of it in my face.  So, if collagen is what I need then it stands to reason that I need a Derma Roller.  

I ordered my own personal roller online. The little device apparently has so many benefits and is most commonly used for fine lines and wrinkles, scars, stretch marks, hyperpigmentation, age spots, Rosacea, acne, enlarged pores, cellulite and hair loss.  

Rollers come with different length needles, depending on the issue you are targeting. 

My issue is wrinkles, and go figure, I need a roller with longer needles.  

CRAP! Longer needles = more pain! 

I had a choice of 0.75 mm, 1.0 mm or 1.5 mm needles. Being a responsible beginner roller, I naturally ordered the shortest recommended needles for my problem. (I'm also not thrilled by the idea of pain so the shorter needles suit me just fine for now!) 

0.75mm needles

When my roller arrived I was happy, nervous, worried and excited – A whole array of really mixed emotions all at once.  At first I couldn’t bring myself to actually use the damn thing. It lay on my dressing table staring at me every morning and every night until I finally plucked up the courage to use it a week and a half later.  

I got everything together, as explained in the instructions manual, and with a deep inhale I began rolling my face. It kind of reminded me of those lawn rollers with the spikes on that are used to aerate the soil. Not that my face looks like lawn, but the lawn roller certainly has benefits, so the Derma Roller should have too.  

I was expecting pain – Nada! 

I was expecting blood – Nada! 

Literally all I felt was some sensitivity after I’d finished rolling. There was a slight stinging / burning sensation for a couple of hours, and for the next three days I had lovely plump skin. The wrinkles were all still there but my actual skin looked super.  

I was happy and impressed! (Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either – I’m NEVER happy or impressed!)  

Sadly, a few days later my skin looked tired again.  

Massive anti climax! 

Perhaps what I thought was plumpness was actually just swelling? I had just micro punctured my face after all.

Ok, so let’s just roll again, yeah?   Uhm, No!  With the size needles on my roller I can only roll at two week intervals. (Research reveals that if you “over roll” you end up doing more harm than good.)  

The fact that I hadn’t felt pain should have been a dead giveaway that I’d done something wrong because more research revealed that I had not used enough pressure, and I had definitely not rolled as many rolls over each area as I was supposed to. Apparently two rolls doesn't help – it’s got to be five!   FIVE?  Why isn’t five my favourite number?

Attempt number two will take place on Friday – I’ll use more pressure and roll each area 5 times in all different directions. I will also be praying that I don’t find myself disfigured for the Easter weekend.  However, if I do, I know that a box of creme filled Easter eggs will be right on hand to help me feel better.  

SMALL CONCERN: If Derma Rolling promotes hair growth, what are that chances that I will start growing a beard? 

Unrealistic expectations?

I said I’d never have fillers again.  I also said I’d never have Botox again.  Fillers are so expensive. The only difference I see after fillers is a depleted bank account.  Botox on the other hand distorts my face and makes me look like a freak when I smile or laugh.  So yes, I have aggressively stated that I won’t ever do Botox or fillers again.

I’m too lazy to remember exactly how long ago it was, but some years ago I tried Botox. My husband had left on a three week business trip to somewhere in Central Africa and I seized the opportunity to have the Botox done in his absence. You must understand that it is never my intention to lie or hide things from him, but when I tell him I’m about to do something stupid he invariably gives me a whole lot of sensible reasons why I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do – and I really wanted to try Botox.  He was no sooner on his flight and I was in Dr Evil’s office.  I wouldn't mention the Botox so he would never know.   

It took two weeks for the effects of the Botox to kick in and I was rather impressed at how relaxed my face looked. That was of course until I smiled.  With every smile my cheeks came up and my right eye sagged down.  I looked like a freak. But nobody said anything so I assumed that I was being my usual overcritical self and that I was overreacting. Surely if I really did look odd someone would say something.  Or not!

By the time my husband came home I had forgotten about the Botox. We were so excited to see each other.  I was all smiles as we started to exchange our stories of what had happened while we were apart. I had so much to tell him (but not about the Botox of course.)  I had his full attention when suddenly his face fell – I could see his deep concern as he sat staring at me. And then our conversation went something like this….

ME: “What’s wrong?”

HIM: “What happened to you?”

ME: “What do you mean?”

HIM: “Are you ok?”

ME: “Yes, I’m fine!”

HIM: “Babe, something terrible has happened to you.”

ME: “You’re scaring me! Why are you saying this?”

HIM: “There is something wrong with your face!”

ME: “What, my love? What’s wrong with my face?”

HIM: “I think you’ve had a stroke!”

And right there and then I swore I’d never have Botox again.

Saying you’ll never have Botox again must be a bit like delivering a baby and saying you’ll never have any more kids, but then you go on to have two or three more.  The disappointment of the horrendous ‘stroke effect’ I got from the Botox is obviously a very distant memory because, yeah, I went back two weeks ago. Not just for Botox, but for more fillers too.

What a sucker for punishment!  Why does it work so well for others but I walk away looking battered and distorted.  My smile looks sarcastic and unfriendly because my eye area is frozen.  It seriously looks like I’m faking smiles.   I just don’t get it.  Dr Evil is obviously skilled because I know so many of her clients, and they all look gorgeous (and normal).  But not me!

I discussed my crisis with my younger sister who manages a Sk:n Clinic in the UK. Our conversation went something like this….

ME:  “There is no difference!”

HER: “I’m sure that’s not true.”

ME: “Honestly, besides the fact that she’s given me a blue eye again, and I now look very unfriendly, there’s no difference!”

HER: “I hate clients like you!”

ME: “WHAT? WHY?”

HER: “You have unrealistic expectations!”

Unrealistic expectations?

I’m crushed! How can anyone think that it’s unrealistic of me to go in to a beauty clinic, spend all that money, and not walk out expecting to look like I’m 25 again?  That's so not an unrealistic expectation!  Pfffft! 

Walkies with Shadow

Since my first walk I’ve decided to dedicate 40 minutes, two evenings a week, to a nice brisk walk. And, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, I really do enjoy it.  You will however not believe the unexpected things that happen which cause me to miss out on many of my bi-weekly walks! Rain, working late, unexpected visitors, etc, etc.  And most recently my knee!   A joint which has never been injured, never given me any trouble at all,  suddenly rolled over and played dead. I attempted to bring it back to life with a course of Cataflam, but it took a whole week for me to resuscitate said knee.  That brought me to almost three weeks of no walking! Finally – good conditions prevailed and I was able to walk once this week. But…………….

Last week there were three incidents reported in our neighbourhood of school children being mugged while walking home from school.  An 11 year old boy who was hit with a stick on the back of the head and searched for valuables, and two high school girls who had their cell phones stolen. Now, if that happens in broad daylight, what could happen at dusk when I take my walks?  My personal safety and the safety of my cell phone need to be taken into account. So for the sake of safety I toyed with the idea of aborting my walks and getting straight back on the couch.

My husband generously offered to walk with me but I’ve come to enjoy my 40 minutes of solitude twice a week, which does some restoration on my very exhausted soul. As much as I appreciated his offer I truthfully told him that I really wanted to be with my own thoughts.  The very rational man responded that that was no problem at all – he would not say a word while we walked, he’d let me listen to my music and enjoy my own thoughts. He would be there as muscle, and not as company.  I’d be a bit like a celebrity with a body guard lurking in the background. We struck our deal and made a date for a silent walk. But then, as Murphy (that son of sod) would have it, the unexpected popped up AGAIN and my husband ended up in a late meeting, having to cancel our walk.  I was left with the decision of risking walking alone or safely retreating to the couch!  

And then I saw Shadow - our beautiful timber wolf who accompanies my marathon loving husband on many of his short distance runs. Shadow is fit, she loves to run and I instantly realised that she would be the perfect walking companion and attacker deterrent. Firstly because she doesn’t talk, but more importantly, because most people are wary of her!  Problem solved! I can’t believe how clever I am sometimes!

So Shadow and I began our walk. Or should I say my drag? Shadow took off on a trot which had me dragging behind her holding onto her lead for dear life.  I tried to use my voice of reason to slow her down and when that didn’t work I used my voice of persuasion. She slowed down a little but was still much faster than me. It didn’t seem to bother her that her collar was just about chocking her, but I could only go as fast as I was going so I figured that eventually she’d get tired of the collar straining at her throat and she’d adjust her pace to match mine.  Not too clever this dog – it took a whole 15 minutes before she slacked off. By then I was pretty tired of all the unplanned resistance training I was getting so I’d slacked off too which still had Shadow ahead of me rather than next to me.

I suspect she started to get bored because 25 minutes in she decided that she would stop and pee, and then stop to stiff and nudge a very dead bird, and then stop to sniff every single pole and every other dogs poop. (There are seemingly thousands of dog walkers in our neighbourhood.) Shadow even spotted a pothole filled with water that she tried to take a swim in. I had to keep begging her to stay focused and walk with me. She criss-crossed in front of me which caused me to stumble a few times.

I was just reaching the point of ‘fed up’ when I spotted two chaps who appeared to be going nowhere in particular and not doing anything in particular. Just mooching around in the street.  Suspicious much? Good old South African caution kicked in and I softly hissed Shadows name to get her off the poop sniffing and to look alert.  She spotted the blokes and watched on them as they took a slow, wide berth around us.  She even glanced back at them for good measure. She looked intimidating but truth be told I don’t at all believe she was looking at them to eat them. She’d probably lick them to death given the opportunity.  She isn’t vicious – she just looks it, especially when she pricks her ears.  But she is curious and that’s probably why she stared them down. I suspect that if one of them had called her she would happily have run over for a pat. As I mentioned, she beautiful, not bright!

After a mostly frustrating walk with Shadow I remembered why I’d taken her along in the first place. I need protection! It’s going to take a couple more walks with her to straighten out the criss-crossing business, to walk next to me and not in front of me, to stop the pole and poop sniffing, and to respect dead birds! But all in all I believe our walking relationship is going to work out. Her intimidating appearance will possibly protect me, and in return I will allow her one good poop sniff per walk.  

 

Insomnia or Exercise?

 I have always been fortunate enough to be able to brag that I sleep well. I have often stated (unapologetically) that I sleep like someone with a clean conscience.  But, the last few months seem to have landed me with a mild case of foot in mouth. 

After a number of recent bouts of insomnia I have felt the frustrating pain that the millions who suffers from insomnia struggle with; and I cry for every single one of them.

But why on earth would I suddenly be struck by this frustrating condition? My conscience is still squeaky clean, I’m working longer hours, my work load has increased, and I’m busier than I have ever been. My anxiety levels have been stable at “high” for years.  Surely I should be sleeping even better than ever before (if that’s even possible). 

Could it be age? I blame most things on aging. It’s because of aging that I look old. It’s because of aging that I struggle to lose weight. It’s because of aging that I can no longer wear cute little outfits without looking like mutton dressed as lamb. It’s because of aging that I can no longer practise the Karma Sutra without straining various muscle groups. It may very well be because of aging that my sleeping pattern has change.

So I had another extensive discussion with myself and decided that although my days are longer and busier and my anxiety levels remain unchanged, and there is sweet blow all I can do about aging, I am not really any more active than before. I concluded that I would try to move a little more to see if I could stimulate a better night sleep.  I’m an avid exercise hater, mainly because the couch is my place of safety and I think sweating is revolting but, I’ve decided to try light exercise to see if it will relieve my problem.  

So I went for a walk…………

I kitted myself out with a sweet pair of gel trainers, stole some ear phones from my son and walked calmly out the gate. I put the music on and started my walk. I had no route, distance or time in mind. I was simply going to walk until I got bored or couldn’t walk anymore (whichever came first). I immediately noticed that my pace was good – fast and strong!  “Oh wow, this is going to be a piece of cake! I can do this!” I thought. “But what the hell am I listening to?” I took the phone out my pocket. Skip song! I have no idea how that RAAAAAR RAAAAAR excuse for music landed on my playlist.

Good - nice music again, let’s keep the pace. I managed another three blocks before I realized I was really pounding the tar. My feet started feeling tender so I changed my pace to take shorter, lighter steps. But what the hell was I listening to now? I took my phone out my pocket to make sure the phone was in fact mine because I couldn’t recognise the music as anything remotely like the music I’d download. I would never listen to this crap… It was definitely my phone though. Skip song, again!

A small gentle uphill – I can do it! But then the heavy breathing started. Not the exciting kind of heavy breathing, but rather the dying kind – guttural, hoarse and ugly. I was gasping and gulping for air at the exact time that I walked into a swarm of midges.  I sucked those buggers in by the lung full which caused a frenzied reaction which involved me swishing my hands wildly in front of my face to try clear the air so I could continue gasping without vacuuming any more midges in. Any residents standing in their gardens watching me may have thought I was having some kind convulsion, or perhaps that I was self harming.  I fought my way through the swarm and stepped up my pace. I had to get distance between me and those pests.

As I made it over the verge I decisively concluded that I’d had enough. But I couldn’t just stop there. I was about 5 blocks away from home. So the next block up I turned to head homeward.  A nice easy stretch of road – flat and straight, and no midges. I slowed my pace to try easing the ridiculous breathing. But wtf was playing now… skip song, again.  Finding a decent tune to listen to took me to the end of that block and with a better beat playing I started a steady downhill towards home.

I was two blocks closer to home when I diagnosed myself with plantar fasciitis, shin splints and groin strain. I was in agony. My lungs and throat were still burning. But worst of all there was still crap playing through the earphones. Where the frikken hell did this music come from.   SKIP SONG!

After what felt like an hour, I reached home so frustrated. I was least concerned about the fact that I was damn near crawling from my freshly self diagnosed ailments, and had only been on the tar for 20 minutes. My playlist had invented a whole new level of frustration for me.  I heaved myself through the front door, waddled with very small delicate steps to my bed and there I lay for a good hour sorting and deleting tunes.  I conclude that there is little worse than listening to dreadful music whilst dying.

So I tried cycling……….

This should be a whole lot of fun – cycling with my favourite friends. I’ll be off my feet and on my bum – how hard can it be?  Apparently only as hard as the bicycle seat! 

My Sunday morning cycle was on a borrowed bike - I felt it was a little too big for me because even when sitting on the seat in its lowest position I could only reach the ground with my tip toes.  But with no bike of my own I had no choice but to use what had graciously be loaned to me.  The ride started out just dandy! Nice easy tar, but then we turned onto the dirt and all hell broke loose. Bump, bump, bump, jiggle, bump, uphill, bump, bump, jiggle, narrow foot path, mud, BIG BUMP, feet fly off the peddles, off the path, into the ruts, handlebar wobbling, OUCH! OUCH! OUCH! I didn’t fall but came dangerously close, twice!  

I thought sitting and exercising would be far more comfortable then exercising on my feet. But alas - I was wrong! After I was informed that we had done approximately 5 kilometres I asked in my most hopeful voice “Does that mean we are finished?” “NO” came Linda’s response. While my body felt like it could go on, I was pretty damn sure that my nether region couldn’t take more. My delicate area was taking excessive strain. It was burning and uncomfortable and feeling out right nasty. I tried standing on the pedals to take the pressure off my little flower, but that just threw me off balance and the bike wobbled and sent me into the ruts again. I had to sit down to gain control of the bike right in the middle of some enormous rippling bumps. My punani took yet another very nasty pounding and it was not pleasant pounding by any stretch of the imagination. 

After 8.5 km and a whole lot of whining about my very sore flower, I was taken back to base. I walked tall to hide the fact that my crushed flower was causing me intense discomfort, but I think it was pretty obvious I was having tremendous difficulty walking. I managed to enjoy a lovely breakfast, wonderful company and have a few good laughs before I got home and gently put myself on the couch. I had to lie down and rest my bruised punani.  I struggled to sit for two days.

  

Did I sleep better? I sure did! I conclude that exercise tames insomnia. But do I feel better?  Should I be putting my body parts at risk like this just for a better night sleep?

The next discussion I have with myself is going to be about which discomfort I can live with more ungrudgingly – the sheer exhaustion which comes from insomnia or the battered and bruised body parts which come from exercising. 

A Micro Mishap'

Of all the desperately stupid things I’ve done in my life, tattooing my eyebrows is by far the stupidest.

Social media has been full of really beautiful picture of girls who have tattooed their eyebrows, using a technique called Mircoblading. It’s the latest trend in giving your brows shape and definition. No more dying your eyebrows and no more plucking to get that great shape – you can have great brows permanently etched onto your face! I’ve been dying to do it.

I did some research and have seen the most gorgeous microbladed brows all over the net. Since mine are so thin and, dare I say - grey, I reckoned that microbading would definitely be the thing for me! Since it’s trending right now, and I’m such a trendy chick, I decided I’d go for it!

WTF HAVE I DONE!

I tootled off on Monday morning to my Microblading appointment, without having told my husband I was going!  I don’t discuss these things with him before hand – And with very good reason of course. He always tries to talk me out of the stupid things I do. But I kind of need to bump my head to learn a lesson, so it doesn’t work to talk me down. You just gotta let me make my mistakes. I also hate the “I told you so” after the fact, so I don’t discuss – I just do!  Yeah, I know, it’s called stubborn. Oh no wait, it’s called stupid.  

About 20 minutes after I got back with my new eyebrows, in walked my man! Immediately as he looked at me he blurted out in shock: “WTF have you done?”  

That was my first indication that I have turned myself into a hideous creature. (At great cost to myself I might add.)

“Teacher, why are you wearing so much make-up?” – Second indication.

“Teacher, why are you wearing Halloween stuff?” – Third indication.

“You look like an Angry Bird!” – Fourth indication

“Mom,*giggle* what have you done? *giggle*” – Fifth indication

And as for everyone who hasn’t said a word, it’s not because they haven’t noticed. I mean really – there is no way you can miss the two big black blocks that are supposed to be my brows. I think some people just don’t have words. When they talk to me their sights are very clearly set on them - their facial expressions are questioning: “WTF has she done”. They don’t ask out loud, because they are polite. Or perhaps because they are in so much shock they have no words. I imagine that when they walk away they are suppressing much laughter.  

It’s only been two days! Where will I hide for the rest of my life?

I don’t understand – I was supposed to look like those beautiful girls on the Internet. Not that I wanted to be an eyebrow model or anything but nice brows where supposed to take attention off my wrinkles.

After a little discussion with a fellow microblader, I feel somewhat better! Emphasis on SOMEWHAT! Apparently after the scabs fall off my brows will be much lighter and not nearly as big and thick and caterpillar looking!  I just have to wait a week and a half.

Something tells me the next week and a half will be the longest week and a half of my entire life!

TIP OF THE WEEK: Book now, Girls. Don't delay, go microblade your brows TODAY.

 (Come on, PLEASE! - I don't want to be the only idiot.) 

A new dilemma

I’m not a multitasker. Never have been! I find it damn near impossible to focus on two things at once. Whoever started the rumour that women are the best multitaskers needs a bit of a wake up slap! To say such a thing is mean, cruel and untrue.  Try as I might, I end up feeling like a failure as a woman because I just can’t do it. It puts me under pressure and I become impossible to be around, so I avoid it at all costs.

Lately I’ve spent so much time worrying about my wrinkles that I haven’t been watching my weight. According to the scale I have gained 7Kgs since I reached my target last April.

 

I suspected I was gaining about a month ago. I could feel it in my jeans. Also, my body does this disturbing thing where it sends a great deal of fat to my tummy. Why it can’t be distributed evenly around my body I’ll never know.  I can tell when I gain weight because painting my toe nails becomes a bit of a contortion act. I can’t bend over my belly and breathe at the same time. Prettying up my toes is a paint, pant, paint, pant process.

“Babe, does it look like I’ve gained weight?” I asked my husband

“No Love. You look great!” he replies.

He’s quite obviously lying! He’s been known to say loads of really nice things to me to avoid me sulking or refusing to cook. He also says nice things when he thinks I’ll let him get cosy with me. The cheeky bugger!

The weather has really warmed up, so last night I took out my summer pj’s. The cutest little shorts and shirt set which I bought last summer.  I put the shorts on and to my blushing embarrassment they now fit like knickers and not at all like the shorts they are supposed to be. Break out the Banshee………. “Hells bells”, I roared, “Not this fat crap again!”

This morning it happened that I had to take a little trot to catch up to someone I wanted to talk to. I felt this really abnormal feeling behind me. My butt was bouncing wildly and a phrase my late grandfather used to say came to mind. If ever my grandpa saw a woman walking by, who had a particularly large bum, he would say “Look at her backside – It looks like two monkeys fighting in a mielie sack!” It would crack everyone up and all would be in fits of laugher. But there I was … trotting away with my butt doing the whole monkeys in the mielie sack thing! And I wasn’t laughing.

There is no debate - I have gained weight.

Although I have consistently been avoiding carbs like bread, pasta and potatoes, I do indulge in a beer or three every now and then and I eat choccies (most nights). 

I suspect the actual problem is that my meal portions have grown considerably. We are also coming out of winter so I do have the very valid excuse that winter did this to me.  

Standing at the mirror, taking a long hard look at myself I noticed the bright side of my weight gain. (Yes, there is always a bright side.) My wrinkles have far less depth. My face looks plumper and, I suppose, about as youthful as a sun damaged, hard working, stress feeling 42 year old could look.

I arrive at the crossroad of an impossible decision – 

To be thin and wrinkly or fat and wrinkle free? 

I can’t decide which would be the lesser of the two uglies?

I ponder what Mark Wahlburg would prefer?  Perhaps I’ll write to him and ask.