It seems to me that there’s a fine line in middle age between living each day as if it is your last and making your life a complete fucking misery by acting on every piece of smug advice about the best ways to prolong your life by living healthily.
And sometimes I feel confused about which side of the fence I actually want to sit on.
I DO try and look after my mental and physical health better than I used to, and I absorb most of the myriad of suggestions about how to improve my health, but sometimes that adolescent ‘fuck it’ attitude rears its ugly head and refuses to play ball.
One example – and this is something the old man and I have our son Kurt to thank for – is the discovery of Honey Whisky; a bottle of which he requested to help celebrate his eighteenth birthday recently.
Of course, I am aware that alcohol (and especially spirits) are one of the biggest hand slaps for the health of the middle-aged woman, but hear me out, because there might be some method to my madness.
Because I figure that my new tipple is probably medically healthier than my usual glass (or eight) of Chardonnay due to the inherent medicinal qualities of its core ingredients. Honey is a natural sweetener that helps the body fight infection and allergies, helps heal wounds and burns and has soothing qualities for sore throats and coughs.
‘And whisky is virtually a super-food with health benefits that include its ability to aid in weight loss, (thank you, God!), slow down the onset of dementia, increase heart health, prevent and manage diabetes, boost good cholesterol, fight against cancer, eliminate blood clots and strengthen the immune system.’ (Taken from Organic Facts)
Whisky is made out of fermented grains – therefore a natural product – and is also a well-recognised remedy for shock and pain relief.
So what I have actually discovered is nigh on a miracle; comparable to turning water into wine. In fact the ONLY detrimental fact about honey whisky, as far as I can see, is that one glass is never enough.
Of course, your average he-man, whisky-drinking, wannabe-Laird like my father, a man arrogant enough about the beverage to only drink one Scottish brand, would thump his chest in outrage and cut me off from his inheritance if he knew that my introduction to what flows through his arteries in place of blood – something he tried and failed to convert me to for years – has to be tainted with sugar, (and a natural one at that), or effectively ‘girled-down’ by honey for me to drink it.
What can I say, Dad? I always was a late developer.