I’ve been roaming this earth thirty seven years (minus one day) and I am finding it hard to believe. I know that I now look my age, unlike when I was just a couple of years younger and people still thought I was in my twenties. I believe that age has caught up with my face and my body and I’m ok with it. What I’m not ok with is how un-37 years old I’m feeling.
On the inside I still feel like I’m not as old as I should be. I thought that by now I’d feel more like an adult, more confident and in control. Most days I still feel like a child trying to figure out life and playing at being a mum. That’s not to say that I don’t take my role as a mother seriously. It’s just that I expected to feel like I actually knew what I was doing now I’m approaching forty.
My body is a different matter altogether. This past week is proof that I haven’t been taking care of myself the way I should have. I teach my children to be active, to eat healthy, not to slouch, to enjoy the feeling of strength that comes from leading a healthy lifestyle but I don’t necessarily practise what I preach. My posture is appalling (and this is the root of most of my body’s aches and pains), I prepare healthy snacks for my children but resort to a quick sugar fix when I’m running low on energy, I don’t exercise but give the girls every opportunity to jump, dance and run…need I say more?
I know something needs to be done and it has to be something permanent. I am constantly being reminded that our body is a machine that needs to be cared for and maintained. What worked for me when I was twenty (read: eating junk and burning the midnight oil) will never work for me again. I take great pride in my role as a parent but conveniently forget that I depend on my own health to be able to carry out those duties.
So, a master plan is being drafted (any tips and suggestions are always welcome). My thirty eighth year will be one that will make me healthier and stronger. Watch this space.
Update: This is my 600th post! That’s a lot of words.