On Manopause

My New Year resolutions kicked off in April.   

Actually, after Easter. It wasn’t so much that I enjoyed the analogy of rising again, it was more to do with my penchant for Hot Cross Buns and the potential for conflicts of interest.

It’s been a few days now and if we’re honest, it’s not working.  My GP gave me some simple diet advice: eat well, eat less and exercise more. I’ve got the first one under control, didn’t understand the thought process behind the second and have been going for a walk in the mornings. Every journey begins with a single step. Or in my case, a hobble, as the old knees take a minute or two to warm up.

My morning walk is not really a relaxing event. I’m up before dawn and set out into the great unknown by 5.30am. I tell myself that this is the best time of the day. The hidden message being that I am not at my best first thing in the morning and the less chance of encountering other people the better it is for everyone.

It’s not uncommon to see the bakery and cafes hard at it. On a Saturday or Sunday morning there might even be a walk of shame underway. Who am I to judge? A quick nod and an acknowledgement of our shared dismay and we all go about our business.

At 6am though, our little village transforms. The serious exercisers come out to play, the ones that have considered their outfits, have their shoes on the correct feet and may have brushed their teeth. The expression ‘Good Morning’ couldn’t be more ironic as you find yourself run down by a jogger, cast into a whirl of cyclists and cleaned up by an overly eager hand-weight as it sashays past.

The mothers have found one another. They condense all of their adult conversations into their 45-minute power walk before they get back to the kids. You can’t be indecisive when you hear them coming. Step the wrong way and you’ll be cast into a whirl of triathletes. Ever the problem solvers, the mums split and converge again without breaking stride or conversation. A whirlwind of pony tails and Lorna Jane marches off into the distance.   

I’m usually home by 6.30am. A mental wreck, in need of a cooked breakfast and the knowledge that it’s never too late to start again.   

New Year, New Me? Maybe next year.

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