The other day I was musing with a friend about the things you give up as you get older. Well, I’ve given up - let’s be accurate here. I’m a runner, I bike, I also do yoga and I eat a healthy diet and…..are you still with me? I love fashion and buying new clothes, looking good is paramount to my enjoyment of life. So I work hard to look good, and by doing this there are certain ‘luxuries’ in life I avoid.

We’ve observed the growth of the new ‘fat individualists' movement where many women are eating what they like (which basically means too much crap food) daring anyone to shame them.

I have no intention of doing any fat shaming myself, I am well aware of the food corporations delight in this new phenomenon in which they gleefully play the enabler. So I’m standing back and watching from a distance - where it will end I have no idea.

My friend is also precious about her appearance, no sugar or trans fats will pass her lips. So I guess you could say we are each other’s enabler. Swopping raw food recipes (don’t smirk, there are many delightful ways to prepare raw food) and sharing Fitbit data.

But sometimes I wonder is it all worth it. So many women I know are saying they want to enjoy their later years without the constraints of children, a job, and for many a partner. What is that saying; skid to a halt with a glass of wine in one hand and chocolate in the other and say ‘whoo hoo what a ride!’…something like that.

Well, why not? When you’ve lived your life at the beck and call of others - and let’s face it that’s most women - then your later years must be for self-indulgence in all things good or bad.

We sighed and stared into the distance remembering the good old days when we shared a glass of wine ate the best chocolates and enjoyed a companionable cigarette.

‘What would you do if you decided to just stuff it all and take up all the bad foods and drink and finish your life an overweight lush?’ she asked. It didn’t take long to think of an answer. ‘I’d pour us a glass of wine, open up that large box of chocolates that are hiding in the back of the pantry and light up a cigarette.’ We both laughed thinking of ourselves as reckless who-gives-a-rat’s-arse women.

Most likely it would be just my luck while dropping ash on my new Vivienne Westwood the first gulp of wine to go down the wrong way and I’d choke to death on my chocolate.

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