My conscience warned me not to surrender to negative self-image perceptions; I needed to embrace my love handles, welcome wrinkles, sprouts of random white hair and accept that I won’t fit into my favourite jeans.
My belly bump was self-earned from the countless joys of gobbling addictive chewy candies, the satisfaction of gorging on anything deep-fried and the comforts of raiding my hidden junk food cupboard.
Now, it’s time to dress and act my age; toss out those high heels in exchange for Velcro, learn to knit – not hip hop, golf instead of backpack and settle into middle age — and the fatigue and reduced energy that comes rolling with it.
This is what I told myself when I stared at my reflection a few months before my 49th birthday last year.
FUCK – THAT – ATTITUDE. What I needed more was to fight for who I am, challenge…
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