Earlier today I was shopping in Woolworths with a good friend of mine, minding our own business. Out of the blue, a strange woman approached me, asking if my weight bothered me. Incredulous, I could at first only stare at her, then told her in no uncertain terms that no, my weight certainly does not bother me. I may not be a model size 6, but I am a comfortable size 18. I am not obese, but I am fairly healthy, voluptuous and a gorgeous goddess.

Obviously my answer startled her. Maybe she was expecting a blubbering confession, a teary breakdown, and a desperate begging for whatever miracle cure she was flogging that would instantly shrink me down to an “acceptable” size. She was taken aback, and then garbled something about her husband also preferring a meatier woman. Now, believe me, this woman was no Twiggy either. In fact, she may even have been larger than me. And yes, it turned out she was trying to sell something. No idea what the product was – she mumbled something about nuts and got away from crazy me. Not sure if she called me nuts or she was selling nuts.

My questions to her were the following: Why is it important to you that your husband likes a meatier woman? Shouldn’t you be happy yourself with the size that you are? Who determines what size or weight we are supposed to be? And why should we accept it? Quite frankly, she couldn’t answer me.

I admire the actress, Jennifer Lawrence. She says the following: “In Hollywood, I am obese. I’m considered a fat actress. I eat like a caveman. I’ll be the only actress that doesn’t have anorexia rumours! I’m never going to starve myself for a part. I’m invincible. I don’t want little girls to be like, “Oh, I want to look like Katniss, so I’m going to skip dinner!”

You go, girl. I agree with every word. This is a breath of fresh air from a plastic society where photoshop rules, and fake is at the order of the day. May you always think like this, and may more young women change their mindsets about their bodies.

Seriously people, what are we telling ourselves when all we do is complain about how we look? Life is short, and it may end at any moment, for any reason. I am not saying let’s not strive to be fit and healthy. I am saying – hey, each to his own. If you get your rocks off getting up at 5am to go jog/cycle/gym – kudos to you. I am more of the school of thinking that if you see me running, you’d better run too, because it means something bad-ass is chasing me.

Yes, I too have Herbalife in my home. Not to lose weight – but because it is a nutritional meal replacement and I lead a really busy life. It is far less effort to have a quick shake to start my day than go through the effort of preparing a healthy breakfast. I eat healthy foods and unhealthy foods – my lifestyle is hectic, and filled to the brim with functions, and I don’t have time to juggle raw carrots against the more delicious pizza.

I can quite honestly say that I really really like myself. It has taken a while. I also went through the self-hate and self-judgemental phases where I’d glare at every bit of fat, hoping to melt it away with my Supergirl X-ray vision. Now I can say that I have learnt that life is about what I enjoy and about what makes me happy.

Each of us is gorgeous just the way we are. Let’s work more on accepting each other than wasting our lives spending time judging each other and ourselves.

Yes, it is July, and another birthday has come and gone. I kept a fairly low profile on this particular birthday. There is just something… old… about turning 39. Something not quite right.

This birthday really got the memories going. Actually, I think I get rather contemplative on all my birthdays, but lately, more so. It was just the other day that I was a curly-haired, bright-eyed goddess, with the earth at my feet, and my hands reaching towards the stars.

I know 39 is not old. Really. Intellectually, I know this. But it really feels as if I have reached my sell-by-date. There is something odd about a 39-year old going barefoot to the local market, wearing my comfy weekend rags. When we went out for my birthday cocktails, we were the oldest people by far in the pub. OK, I’ll admit it – I was the oldest person by far. My husband is a great deal younger than me.

There is almost a post-35 turning point. Now you are all grown up. The grey hairs no longer come one by one, but in patches. The wrinkles don’t just appear when you laugh, but they sort of sit there permanently.

And yes, quite frankly, I don’t want to be labelled as “old”. I am fun-loving and excited about things. I have a world still left to explore. I want to become a mom, I want to still write that book, I want to let my hair down and dance barefoot in the waves.

So I have something to say to society that has “expectations” of women my age. Bury those expectations. I will be as young as I think I am. And if I look ridiculous to you, you are welcome to be old before your time.