Everything is Going South

Hello & Welcome to my Half Starved Little Life.

For the past few days or maybe even a week, like a Siren from Homer's Odyssey, Della has been calling to me.
But sadly, I've been too hungry to answer.
It's been five weeks since I started the 5:2 Diet where two days a week I eat loads & loads less than normal.
I like to call it a Toy Fast. You are supposed to eat no more than 500 calories on your two Toy F-Days as I call them & then eat normally on the other five days, but I don't think I'm doing it properly. But then again, I never think I do anything properly.
You may wonder why I'm doing it.
Sudden Obesity?
Control Issues?
Vanity?
A Late-Onset Eating Disorder?
Masochism?
A Desire to Live Longer with a reduced chance of getting a range of illnesses including dementia?
If you ticked "all of the above" you would be correct.

After turning 60 & then coincidentally reading some vile news story featuring a gruesome pie chart showing that 85% of old people have something wrong with them like heart disease, or heart disease with stroke symptoms, or dementia or combinations of all three with of course Cancer thrown in, not forgetting type 2 diabetes, I decided to do something.
That was when I heard about the diet. The fasting is supposed to fix all that stuff up, although I suppose you've got to die of something eventually.
If I had a choice, I'd rather die of Dying in my Sleep.
My main worry was Dementia.
I could imagine how cranky my daughter Maeflower would be with me if I started forgetting everything instead of only some things. And how I'd have to go into a Home. Suddenly I'm feeling v sorry for my Elderly Self.
I'd better move on. Self Pity is rarely a Winner.
Anyway, I haven't noticed any big changes yet although I can report that I appear not to have developed Full blown Dementia or suffered a stroke over the past five weeks.

And then there's the Botox issue. I must say that I have been thinking about it particularly since noticing increased deep-cavity-line-activity in the Naso-Labial Area. Some prefer to call them Marionette Lines which I find aptly charming as I would like to think of my Aged Self as resembling Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward from The Thunderbirds.
And synchronicity struck yet again last Saturday when I invited the mother of a student I am tutoring (not from my school) to inspect my apartment.
For months , this Concerned Parent has been dropping her daughter off on a Saturday morning at my front door step . I knew that she was curious to see what lay beyond the Entrance Foyer because I could see her eyes darting past me to catch a glimpse.
I must say that I kind of enjoyed watching her obvious curiosity. I never feel that people are Sufficiently Curious about me.

Finally, last Saturday it got too much for Concerned Parent & she breathlessly asked if she could come in & take a look.
I was all Queenly Graciousness as I guided her through the apartment like it was a tour of an English Stately Home.

"Oh, I can see that you're an artist! So am I, of sorts"
"Yeah. Like a nail artist or a Cupcake Artist" I thought, all the while nodding & smiling.
"I'm a skin doctor, specialising in Cosmetic Work".
I was shocked. How could I get it so wrong?
Why do I always think women are cleaners or admin assistants when in actual fact they're judges or diplomats or in this case, a doctor?
Must I always cling to outmoded gender roles?
But enough of the Rhetorical Triples, lets get back to the story if you could call it that.

Immediately I removed my glasses, closed my eyes & asked her to take a look, desperately hoping that when I told her my age, she'd act shocked.
She didn't.
"Not too bad really, you're holding up quite well. But sadly as we get older, everything
Falls South"

In a twinkle of a wrinkle we made tentative arrangements for a session with Transformative Injectables & Industrial Strength Fillers.
Can't wait!
Have got miles more to say, but must hop into bed to get Badly Needed Beauty Sleep.