Yesterday I turned 31. It’s no big deal. I didn’t care much about turning 30, so 31 means nothing to me.
It wasn’t my best birthday ever.
The way I spent it seems to say a lot about who I have become. And I need to work on it.
I did the housework. Or rather, I tried to do the housework while looking after two small but very demanding girls. We had a busy weekend and the house was trashed. After spending the whole day on it, it looked exactly the same. I achieved the sum total of nothing whatsoever.
I was shattered too. I hadn’t slept. I haven’t slept in months and months and months. My skin is pale apart from the huge dark circles under my eyes. My hair is long and scraggly with a million split ends, and is several different colours from using whatever dye is on offer then letting it fade completely before doing it again. I have an enormous mouth ulcer that formed after Iris head butted me and my wonky teeth cut into my lip. My lips are chapped and sore. My skin is dry and tight. My jeans that fit a couple of weeks ago now don’t fit, and all I eat is Nutella on toast.
I feel like crap.
I’m clearly very run down. I’m not taking care of myself at all. I could probably do with some vitamins and definitely an iron supplement.
It’s probably all pretty normal stuff for somebody who has had two babies ridiculously close together. I’m not sure it’s normal for every single part of me to ache and throb.
I’m so tired.
Today I bought some make up. I’m seriously considering buying one of those pinafore dresses that seem to be the latest trend.
I’m going to get my hair cut, start taking supplements and have a chat with my GP about feeling fed up all of the time.
I’m giving up Nutella.
I’m 31, and it’s about time I got the hang of looking after myself.