THESE last couple of weeks have been a blur. Alongside the children having two weeks off for half-term and work being full-on, I inconveniently had pneumonia.
I did that really ‘mum’ thing of being too busy to make time to go to the doctors until I was on my hands and knees, and once I got medication, I was too busy to rest so I continued to work and look after the kids, laying the make-up on industrially every day.
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But with each day that passed, I felt more ropey, until it got to the point where I couldn’t even be bothered to put a matching tracksuit on, let alone thread my eyebrows, cover that huge spot or put a brush through that mane knotted on top of my head.
Every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of myself and despair. I looked like I was stuck in my Halloween costume.
Everyone I came across commented on how awful I looked, and all this only made me feel even sicker. Even as I started to perk up, I was stuck in a poorly rut.
I looked like I’d aged a decade – probably not helped by my seven-year-old Delilah asking, “What were cars like when you were my age mummy? Did you even have cars?”
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Kick a zombie when she is down why don’t you kid? I am 32 not 82.
I started to think about all the things that could improve the face I saw looking back at me – bar a face transplant.
And the next day, I started with baby steps. I washed my hair; I didn’t blow dry it though, just let it dry naturally. I’m not Beyoncé.
But I booked in to get my eyebrows threaded – and I’m sure the threading lady punished me for leaving it so long since last time. I squeezed in a lick of paint on my nails too to really liven myself up.
I started with baby steps. I washed my hair; I didn’t blow dry it though, just let it dry naturally.
When I got back in the car, I saw my reflection as I got out of the best parking spot I had ever manoeuvred into, and I looked a little brighter.
I am sure that looking so rundown and dishevelled had somehow been keeping me feeling rough. That night I even changed into a matching outfit – it was PJs, but still.
What struck me wasn’t so much how looking awful had affected my mood, but that sometimes, our surroundings, lifestyle and habits can stop us moving forward.
Sometimes, it is not going to ‘just pass’ or ‘work itself out’. We have to make a decision to try to force a change.
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I am not a great believer in luck or even fate. I think that we have the ability to make things happen.
Nothing will grow if we forget to water it. This is all coming from the least positive person you will ever meet.
I’m a worrier and a ‘Negative Nancy’, but the older I get the faster the months and years whizz by, I refuse to spend the rest of my days looking like an extra from Oliver Twist.
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