Toasting my 45th I announced, "having a birthday was better than the alternative." Vocalizing those words confirmed my worst fear, I'd become middle aged. The time of life that is apparently defined as between 45 and 65. It's not that I haven't accepted the gradual downward melt of skin and body parts, after all, for years I did champion the bumper sticker "Botox when one expression is enough." I've just decided I'd rather state my bio age because it sounds so much more on trend. This does not mean I'm biodegradable, it measures my "fitness" age. Logically, by increasing my fitness I should be able to Benjamin Button the numbers down a little and wiggle out of middle age for a wee bit longer. But having said that I think I'll increase the font size a little anyway.
So instead of hanging up my travel quill after committing to another one year lease, I bring you Dumb Blonde Middle Aged Adventures - ramblings of a rapid hurtle over the hill. Instead of posting glamorous photos of iconic global tourist destinations, I have decided to share my inner journey on the way to fitness."Oh dear God no!" I hear you cry? Not more vapid ego drivel from another aging crone making a cliche marathon attempt.
"Yes!" I reply with gleeful optimism you'll be dragged along on every last sweaty gritty mile. Although in salute to the end of my "early adulthood" I have chosen The Great Noosa Trail a 64 km/40 mile walk as my inspiration. In preparation for this epic 3 day-er, I've been attempting to train for the past couple of weeks by gradually increasing the distance of my daily run.
Admittedly my shoes aren't exactly red and sequined, but I don't think Dorothy would mind if I made them carry me home.
Excuse the pun but my first serotonin drenched epiphany isn't exactly groundbreaking. Running long distances is gastronomically complex. Opposing my efforts to RMLAO (run my lardy ass off) my hunger will only be sated with huge bowls of pasta. Surely defeating the purpose of me trying to get fit? My mouth waters in defiance at the gourmet delights my daughter will experience as she jets off to Italy. In further testament to my ancient middle-aged stay at home status, I just get to visit the fridge and try to determine the source of that biodegrading smell.
