Just when I’m sitting back smugly looking at how far I think I have come, and not only geographically, I come down to earth with a bump. What is it with the fact that no matter how much I feel I have achieved, how much wiser I am, it all goes out the window momentarily over something so trivial. This morning I fought with everyone. Jem because I felt she hadn’t told me everything about when some schoolwork was due, Kate because I had to tell her three times to clean her bathroom, and B, because I felt he undermined me while I was so justifiably going off at the girls for such unforgivable acts. The truth is it wasn’t about any of that at all, it was about the fact that I gained 1kg. To put it in context I am consistently 7kg heavier than I was comfortable being previously due to a cocktail of menopause, femara, zoladex and lexapro. And I have made peace with that. And with the fact that all the damn exercise in the world I do, just keeps the creep at bay. Or so I thought. What a brat I became today. Why does it matter so much. I used to say I was happiest when I was thin and hungry. And I was. And unhealthy. Then I grew up. Yeah. Now I’m neither. But I am happy. And healthy. So, how can 1kg matter so much? How can it derail me like that? And I know, as do we all, that how you feel inside is what matters, that I am healthy, that I am fit, that my current problems are golden, that it’s not about how you look but how you behave. I have so much to be grateful for. Am I really that shallow. Honestly, and I really shouldn’t admit this, given everything, if you want to make my day, tell me I look like I’ve lost weight, don’t tell me how fit or heathy or happy I am looking. But I have moved on a little, because even though I felt grumpy and frustrated this morning, I’m still having heaps of butter and peanut butter on my toast today. Because it makes me happy. And I know deep down, being happy matters more to me than being thin. Deep deep down.