MC Make-Up Artist+ Image Stylist

A while ago, a billboard outside a local gym featured a photo of a woman with a textbook "perfect" bikini body. The caption read: "This summer, do you want to be a mermaid or a whale?"

The story goes that another woman—whose physical appearance remains unknown—left the most brilliant response to that question:

"Dear gentlemen,

Whales are constantly surrounded by friends (dolphins, seals, and curious humans). They have highly active s*x lives and raise their babies with immense tenderness. They have an absolute blast swimming with dolphins and crash all-you-can-eat shrimp buffets whenever they feel like it. They spend their days swimming and traveling to breathtaking places like Patagonia, the Barents Sea, or the coral reefs of Polynesia. They sing beautifully—so well, in fact, that people actually buy CDs of their songs. They are magnificent, deeply loved creatures that the entire world protects and admires.

Mermaids, on the other hand, don't exist.

But if they did, they’d be spending all their money on therapy, lining up to see a psychologist for a massive identity crisis—are they a woman or a fish? They would have zero s*x life and could never have children. Sure, they’d be gorgeous, but they’d be entirely lonely and miserable. Plus, honestly, who wants to date a girl who smells like seafood?

So without a shadow of a doubt, I’d rather be a whale.

In an era where the media constantly brainwashes us into thinking that only skinny is beautiful, I choose to eat ice cream with my kids, go out for dinner with my husband, and eat, drink, and laugh with my girlfriends.

We, as women, don't just gain weight. We are simply accumulating so much wisdom, knowledge, and life experience that it can no longer fit in our heads and has to expand throughout our entire bodies.

We aren't fat—we are just immensely cultured.

And every single time I catch a glimpse of my curves in the mirror, I smile and think: 'My God, look how brilliant I am!'"

— Isabelle Boisvert

Ek is nou dik vir poeier en kwas

MARINDA SWANPOEL – Lag ‘n slag vir jouself (en as jy ‘n man is, lag tog net saggies waar jou vrou jou nie kan hoor nie…)

Daar kom ’n tyd in elke vrou se lewe waar sy eenvoudig net ophou onderhandel met die wêreld. Nie dramaties nie. Nie met ’n persverklaring of ’n spirituele retreat in Clarens nie.

Net stilweg. So tussen die derde grys haar en die sewende bra wat skielik voel soos ’n middeleeuse marteltoestel.

Ek het onlangs besef ek is nou amptelik dik vir poeier en kwas. Klaar. Finished. Daai fabriek het toegemaak.

Daar was ’n tyd toe ek twee ure vroeër opgestaan het om my gesig te “doen.” Base. Concealer. Highlighter. Contour. Goed wat klink soos gereedskap in ’n hardewarewinkel.

Nou kyk ek soggens na my make-up sakkie soos iemand wat belastingvorms moet invul. Dis net te veel emosionele arbeid.

En die ergste is … mans d**k steeds vroue “doen dit vir hulself.”

Nee, Koos. Niemand sit vrywillig met ’n warm haardroër teen hul nek in Desember vir personal growth nie.

Ek het ook die stadium bereik waar ek nie meer belangstel om my liggaam konstant strategies weg te steek nie.

As my tieties wil hang, dan hang hulle. Hulle het hul diensplig gedoen. Daardie soldate het deur push-up bras, draadbras, strapless bras en minstens drie nasionale rampe gegaan. Hulle verdien nou pensioen en sagte materiaal. Ek wil nie meer “ingetrek” wees nie.

Elke vrou ken daardie asemophou-oomblik wanneer jy jeans aantrek en jou organe vir ’n paar sekondes fisies herorganiseer. Vir wie presies doen ons dit?

Ek wil nou klere dra wat voel soos ’n sagte verskoning. Linnebroeke. Los T-hemde. Onderklere wat nie lyk asof dit deur NASA ontwerp is nie.

En eerlikwaar? Ek wil ook uit die publieke oog verdwyn. Nie permanent nie. Net genoeg dat niemand onverwags by my hek opdaag en sê: “Ons was in die area!” nie. Want nou moet ek ’n bra aantrek én maak asof ek mense geniet.

Nee dankie.

My droom is eintlik om daardie geheimsinnige vrou op ’n kleinhoewe te word wat net sporadies in die dorp verskyn met ’n reuse sonbril en hondekos in haar trollie.

Mense sal fluister: “Sy was eens baie sosiaal.” En hulle sal reg wees. Maar ouderdom bring ’n vreemde soort vrede saam. Jy besef skielik hoe min belangrik baie dinge eintlik is.

Perfekte eyeliner? Onnodig. Hoë hakke? Krimineel. Ander mense se opinies? Ag nee wat.

As die Here wou hê ek moet heeldag ongemaklik wees, sou Hy my as ’n plastiese tuinstoel geskape het. So nee, ek gaan nie meer sukkel nie.

Die tieties hang.
Die hare word grys.
Die bra kom af teen 17:00.

En as iemand my soek, sal ek by die huis wees – sonder mascara, sonder stres, en heel moontlik sonder ’n behoorlike bra.

I FULLY AGREE WITH THE AUTHOR OF THIS. WE CANNOT GLORIFY THESE SKELETAL LOOKS... WE CAN AND MUST DO BETTER FOR OUR CHILDREN.

Shared as recieved..

To My Fellow Women Over 50…..
Let’s be real for a second. We aren’t those girls anymore—the ones who used to zip through the city in sundresses, laughing at nothing, convinced that time was an infinite resource.

We’re different now.

We see the fine lines around our eyes. We notice the silver in our hair that didn’t get there by accident. We look at bodies that have been reshaped by motherhood, careers, burnout, sleepless nights, surgeries, losses, and all those battles we never fully shared with anyone.

And yeah, sometimes we catch a glimpse of younger women and we see our old selves. We see their lightness. Their spark. That bulletproof confidence of someone whose heart hasn't been hit by life yet.

But the truth is simple: we were them once.
And one day, they will be us.
And there is no tragedy in that.

Youth has the beauty of speed, but maturity has the beauty of depth. At twenty-five, you’re bright. At fifty, you know exactly what that brightness cost you. You know how to get back up after a betrayal. You know how to smile for your kids when you’re falling apart inside. You know how to pay the bills, run a household, save a family, and swallow your tears only to get up and do it all again the next morning.

We have loved.
We have lost.
We have forgiven.
We have waited.

We’ve survived health scares, letdowns, the loneliness that can happen even in a marriage, the gut-wrenching worry for our children, and the hollow silence of rooms left by those who aren't coming back.

And yet, here we are.

We aren’t perfect. We aren't scar-free. We don’t have our twenty-year-old bodies back. But we have souls that refused to quit.

So, please—stop apologizing for your age. Stop feeling like you have to say sorry for the grey hair, the wrinkles, or the tired look in your eyes. Those aren't "expiration dates." They are receipts for the journey you’ve traveled.

We aren’t just getting older.
We’re becoming real.

We need to meet this next chapter not with self-loathing, but with a radical kind of tenderness. With respect. With pride for everything we’ve endured.

Because growing old isn't a sentence.
It’s a privilege that isn't granted to everyone.

Credit: Internet (shared content)

Soooo..I also virtually attended the MET GALA....Had some fun...how many of you tried ChatGpt to take you to the red carpet?

IT IS IMPORTANT TO FIND OUR COMFORT IN OUR OWN BODIES AND DISCARD OUR OWN MAN MADE PRISONS OF WEIGHT BEAUTY ETC.

It's not how many times you fall down, it's how many times you get back up.

I attended a memorial for a friend held on a beach. I grabbed my skinny jeans (which are coming back in style) and couldn’t close the zipper. When everyone calls me ‘too thin’ and I say I’m the same size - I guess I’m not. I’m bigger.

I don’t really care about my size - except if I can’t fit into my clothes!

At the beginning of the year I went in search of my waist and found it, forgot about it, and lost it again!

Its not easy. Its never done. But it gets easier.

Oh. You wanted the ‘secret’. The get out of jail free card? The immediate result?

Truth is we acquired our harmful habits over time. The thing we want to change is the result of years of doing that thing that prevents us reaching our goal. So why do we expect immediate change when we nurture ourselves for a few weeks or months?

I measured myself and sure enough I was bigger everywhere again. So I changed three things.

When I get home late at night, I usually snack
I’ve just been focusing on my tummy with some dance classes
I’ve been working on the prequel to my book, Damaged Beauty Joey Superstar; my posture lapsed

I went back to being aware of my posture which forces me to hold in my belly and push back my shoulders, engaging my core. I focused less on my belly and worked on side exercises. Oh, yeah. I continued to snack when I was hungry, but I changed it up. I switched from chips - which I keep in the house for my husband - and went for shelled pistachio nuts. You can’t eat them mindlessly.

I also asked myself why I was needing to snack? I eat 3 - 5 meals a day so why was I hungry? Last night I was again ravenous by dinner. I paid attention. I did not want to overeat, but I wanted to ensure my body would have fuel for the very active evening ahead. I had two and a half portions of freshly baked fish. (That’s two and a half portions of Tilapia) I ate slowly and ensured I was satiated. I did not go back for more portions of wild rice. By eating enough protein, which is good for my body, low in fat, and taking my time so my brain registered that I was eating I did not overeat, (the portions are not huge). When I returned home at 10pm, I wasn’t hungry. Snacking wasn’t an issue.

I became aware of a harmful habit, changed it, moving closer to my goal.

Understanding why I was eating, what I was eating and when, helped me change my behavior. This morning, although my waist is stubbornly three inches bigger than it was before COVID, the measurement over my belly button was less that when I began healthy habits at Christmas. The waist may be due to menopause. I’m not fixated. I’m aware. Don’t want to lose weight. I want to tighten my waist. Strengthen my muscles. Can I?

Slow change. Healthy Change. Forgiveness. Starting again. Making progress. Maybe you’re stronger than me with a schedule that allows you to follow your healthy habits and have stuck with it all this time and are seeing changes - if so please do share here. If you are like me and got distracted, well, you are not alone. Start again. In the next month I will share The Interruptor. You are going to love it.

PS. The photo was taken late at night after an active day, makeup imperfect, just like me

SARIE Tydskrif Huisgenoot rooi rose Miss Universe Miss South Africa

At 84, she received a call that changed everything.
Iris Apfel had spent six decades building a quiet empire. She and her husband Carl ran a textile company called Old World Weavers, restoring fabrics for some of the most prestigious addresses in America, including the White House under nine presidents.
But her real masterpiece was never the business—it was what hung in her closet.
Born in 1921 in Astoria, Queens, Iris grew up between two worlds. Her father sold glass and mirrors; her mother ran a fashion boutique. As a child, she rode the subway into Manhattan for a nickel, combing through thrift shops and antique stores, collecting pieces that spoke to her.
She never stopped collecting.
For decades, while traveling the world sourcing rare textiles, Iris bought things nobody else wanted. Tribal jewelry from North Africa, vintage couture from Parisian flea markets, costume pieces that cost five dollars sitting beside items worth thousands.
She layered necklaces until they became sculptures on her small frame. She paired Dior jackets with dollar-store finds. She wore colors that clashed on purpose.
Every outfit declared one simple truth: style cannot be purchased. It must be invented.
Nobody in the fashion world was watching. Iris was simply living her truth every single day.
Then the Metropolitan Museum of Art called.
A curator had heard whispers of a woman with one of the greatest collections of costume jewelry and accessories in New York. When another exhibition fell through, he tracked down Iris.
What he found stunned him. Rooms overflowing with fashion history, every piece curated with an artist's eye.
The museum asked to feature her personal wardrobe in a major exhibition.
Iris was 84 years old.
The show, called Rara Avis (Rare Bird), became a sensation. Suddenly, this octogenarian with enormous round black glasses, snow-white hair, and bright red lipstick was everywhere.
She became the first living person who was not a designer to have her clothing exhibited at the Met.
The fashion industry didn't know how to categorize her. Here was a woman in her eighties commanding more attention than models decades younger.
She hadn't asked permission. She hadn't sought validation. She had simply dressed herself with complete creative freedom for sixty years, until the world finally caught up.
She explained the difference between fashion and style simply: fashion, you can buy. Style is something else entirely—it implies originality, courage, and lives in your DNA.
She dismissed conventional beauty, saying she was not pretty and never would be. It did not matter. She had something much better.
She had style.
Her philosophy fit in four words: more is more. She stacked bangles until her wrists could barely lift. She layered beads, feathers, and textures that could have overwhelmed her tiny frame, but somehow projected bold, graphic power.
Her favorite saying became her Instagram bio: More is more and less is a bore.
Fame arrived late and never stopped accelerating. She appeared in a documentary at 93, signed a modeling contract at 97, and collaborated with major fashion brands well into her hundreds.
On social media, nearly three million people followed her.
Through it all, Iris worked. She once called retirement a fate worse than death. When asked at 100 what else she could possibly do, she answered simply: she did not play golf, she did not play bridge. She loved to work.
She and Carl had been married for 67 years when he died in 2015 at 100. They never had children, partly because their work required constant travel, and Iris refused to let her children be raised by someone else.
Instead, her influence reached millions who never met her.
Young people found permission to dress boldly. Older people found permission to refuse invisibility. Everyone found permission to stop apologizing for taking up space.
Iris Apfel lived to 102, passing away in 2024.
For eight decades, she had heard the world's narrow definitions of what fashion should look like, what women should look like, what aging should look like.
Then she spent two extraordinary decades proving something the world desperately needed to see:
Creativity has no expiration date. Beauty exists far beyond narrow standards. The most revolutionary act anyone can commit is refusing to shrink themselves for anyone else's comfort.
The woman who built art on her body every single day became exactly what she always was:
Completely, unapologetically, magnificently herself.

ChatGpt ..came up with this according to what it knows of me. Lol

"Myths About Women Over 6O-Let’s Clear This Up
Myth: “I’m too old to get stronger.”
Fact: Women 65+ can still build muscle, improve balance, and boost energy. Your body isn’t fragile—it’s just experienced.

Myth: “Memory loss is unavoidable.”
Fact: Staying active, social, and curious keeps your brain sharp. Forgetting why you walked into a room is not a medical condition—it’s multitasking.

Myth: “Health issues are just part of aging.”
Fact: Many problems are preventable or manageable. Aging is not a diagnosis. It’s a privilege.

Myth: “Life slows down after 65.”
Fact: Research shows happiness often goes up with age. Fewer people to impress. Better boundaries. Zero tolerance for nonsense.

Bottom line:
You’re not “past your prime.”
You’re in your no-longer-putting-up-with-nonsense era—and it looks good on you."