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menopause Archives - Life: A Birds Eye View http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/tag/menopause/ Life, as seen through the eyes of a fun-loving old bird Sun, 01 Sep 2019 08:08:29 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.5.3 https://i0.wp.com/lifeabirdseyeview.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/cropped-cropped-BannerSoft-1.jpg?fit=32%2C32 menopause Archives - Life: A Birds Eye View http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/tag/menopause/ 32 32 126950918 I’m Taking Back Control Of My Borders http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/2019/07/im-taking-back-control-of-my-borders.html/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=im-taking-back-control-of-my-borders http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/2019/07/im-taking-back-control-of-my-borders.html/#comments Tue, 16 Jul 2019 16:34:26 +0000 https://lifeabirdseyeview.com/?p=2851 “You look like one of those Hollywood celebs,” my (now ex) boyfriend said pensively as he eyed me getting ready to go out one evening, peering over the top of his phone. “Thanks babe,” I replied, beaming. “….yeah you know, that chunky one whose book […]

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“You look like one of those Hollywood celebs,” my (now ex) boyfriend said pensively as he eyed me getting ready to go out one evening, peering over the top of his phone.

“Thanks babe,” I replied, beaming.

“….yeah you know, that chunky one whose book you were reading on holiday. Amy…Schumer?”

“Oh yeah…right…”

I peered in the mirror, deflated, and vowed silently to lose it, once and for all. The man, I mean. That would be 13 stone of excess baggage gone in one fell swoop.

To be fair, he had a point: both Amy and I bore more than a passing resemblance to Miss Piggy in those days – and I clearly liked to hang out with a muppet.

So I gave him the heave-ho…and vowed to heave my arse to the gym.

Separated at birth: I even have a lower back tattoo. Yikes!

Faulty relationship dealt with, it was time to continue with my life admin and take stock of my lifestyle. Having stopped smoking at the age of 40, I had been slowly taking baby steps towards a healthier lifestyle. Very slowly. Like, sloth speed. But then the comfort and familiarity of a long-term relationship, coupled with the creeping waistline of the classic middle-aged spread had kiboshed my (admittedly half-baked) attempts at reducing my addiction to baked goods.

Now, aged 42 and 2 stones heavier than I’d like, I was sat drinking sugary cocktails with a group of girlfriends. “I’ve really let myself go these last couple of…years”, I wailed. The girls guffawed into their pornstar martinis. I knew what they were thinking: a few weeks or months, fair enough, you’ve (barely) taken your eye off the (prawn) ball, but…years?! That was just carelessness. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been battering the buffet and chugging hot chocs until I uttered those words. No, no, no, this would not do…

It took me another six months before I took any action, instead choosing to make half-hearted mumblings about joining the gym, or that this would be my last slab of carrot cake (ahhhh carrot cake, my delicious – but malicious – friend). Then, suddenly, my 43rd birthday loomed large…and I knew it was time.

And the change – when it finally came – was huge, instant, and overwhelming. Anyone that knows me knows that I don’t do things by halves, hence the voracious appetite that got me in this pickle – mmmm…cheese and pickles (said in a Homer Simpson-esque drawl) – in the first place.

Overnight, I changed. Since I’ve lost the weight and got in shape I’ve been inundated with requests for information: how did I do it, what support have I had, is there some magic potion I’m touting?

So, Bird’s Eye Viewers, I’ve decided to impart my pearls of wisdom with you. Are you ready? Here goes…

I ate less.

And then.

I moved more.

Sadly, it really is that simple. Or not, as the case may be. It turns out it’s true: nothing tastes as good as fit feels. You have to make a choice. BUT – and it’s a big but, just like mine was – there is also one (surprising) secret ingredient in my body transformation recipe for success, which ladies of a certain age may well be interested in…but more about that later. (I know, I’m such a tease). This is how I lost 2 stones in 2 months and feel incredible, and you can too…

1/. Buy some body fat scales

There’s nothing more likely to give you the boot you need up that big ol’ blubbery backside of yours than stepping onto a set of body fat scales (mine were 12 quid from Aldi – bargain) and discovering you have the same basic body composition as a pork scratching. My initial reading showed I weighed 12 stone 1 (I know – ouch!), was made up of 37% water, 10.7% bone, 30.3% muscle…and a whopping 37% fat! Whaaaat?! Almost 40% lard? Now I’ve been told that body fat scales can be slightly off-kilter, and you don’t have to be Carol Vordermann to notice that those totals come to over 100% (like, how?)…but if there’s ever a time the cold hard facts will slap you in the face after years of guzzling and gorging, it’s when you step on them there body fat scales. You have been warned! I logged my progress every few days, and my most recent readings are: 9 stone 8, 53.5% water, 11.8% bone, 36.1% muscle and 22.2% fat. So I’ve now lost 2.5 stones and 15% fat in 3 months…I’ll take that! I’d recommend monitoring your progress every few days at first, then weekly once you’ve achieved your goal weight (oh yeah – set a goal. You need to know what you’re aiming for and stay focused). Warning: it gets addictive. Sometimes I weigh myself twice a day. I just don’t want to ever go back to having the same fat content as a deep-fried Mars bar.

9 stone 8 and feeling great 🙂

2/. Take body measurements

As well as stepping on the scales, you’ll want to see the difference in your vital statistics. I’ve dropped 2 dress sizes and lost at least 3 inches from each of the areas I measured – sadly as well as hips, thighs and waist, this also includes my chest…waaaaah! So I may now be the proud owner of a set of abs you could grate cheese on, but the same goes for my ribs. And my boobs resemble two peas on an ironing board. What can I say? You can’t have it all. Well, unless you’ve got a mate on Harley Street and a spare 5k knocking around…

5 inch loss! My waist has gone from 31 to 26 inches

3/. Cut out sugar

Like, completely. If, like me, you’re partial to gallons of liquid calories in the form of sugary tea and coffee shop hot chocolates (I had the front to request a ‘skinny hot chocolate with extra chocolate sprinkles’ with a straight face as my standard staple beverage, day-in, day-out, for years), then you’ll probably have to go cold turkey and banish all hot drinks except for herbal teas. Drinks are empty calories. Brucie Bonus: green tea may taste like swamp water, but it is loaded with energy-giving caffeine and aids weight loss like a pro. Cane it like there’s no tomorrow. Well, upto 3pm, that is. Switch to peppermint after that, and then chamomile before bed, otherwise you’ll be on ceiling duty all night (ie awake and buzzing your bits off).

Oh and note that I specifically singled out ‘hot’ drinks. We all know wine is the stuff of puffer-fish faces and bloated bellies, but I’m not giving that up. Not yet. No siree. But strangely, despite still swigging Sauvy B like it’s going out of fashion, it doesn’t seem to hinder my weight loss. At all. Happy days! If you do everything else I did, I reckon there’s still room for a few cheeky bevvies. Because all work and no play makes Jackie a dull girl. And anyway, when I’m drunk I dance a lot, so it’s all part of the exercise plan, amiright?

Well, you need SOME vices, darling! 😉

I cut out all the obviously sugary snacks completely though: chocolate, sweets, crisps, cakes – all gone. I’ll still have the occasional dessert when I’m out for dinner, but don’t even think about buying those badboys for the house. Ever. Why put temptation in your way like that? It’s like inviting a grizzly bear over for dinner and asking it nicely not to savage you.

4/. Walk, walk, walk (or better still: run)

I don’t drive. I know – shocker! Believe me, the world is a safer place without me behind the wheel. But what this also means is that I walk everywhere. Especially now I’m single without a Jeeves to ferry my ass around town. I walk at least an hour a day, quickly, on my (uphill) commute, which, combined with standing all day in my job as a beauty boutique manager, means I average around 15k steps a day. Every little helps! And if you can run somewhere instead, even better. I run home from work when I can. The lure of the fridge when I get there spurs me on. Oh, and dance at every opportunity. But coming from an old raver, that goes without saying, surely.

There’s nothing like running through the boneyard to remind you to carpe the shit outta each diem…

 

5/ Remove red meat

I only eat red meat as a treat when I’m out these days. Actually, that goes for most meat in general. For me, dinner is all about the oily fish, salads, seafood and stir fries (minus the sugary sauces – just a splash of soy or hoisin).

6/ More fruit and veg

Fruit is high in sugar, but at least it’s natural sugars. Rather than snacking on chocolate and sweet treats, I’ll now have Greek yoghurt with blueberries, or dried apricots, raisins or cranberries in portion-controlled snack packs. Nuts are great for snacking too, but high in calories (and oh-so-moreish) so beware! Vegetables may be the food equivalent of a geeky librarian – boring af – but just get them down you and move onto more interesting pastimes… (oh, and sex them up with a sprinkle of chilli flakes).

7/. Be prepared

I always make sure I’ve got my water bottle and a supply of healthy snacks with me to stop me reaching for the bad stuff when the hunger pangs kick in. I pack my bag military-style, like a mum, in the mornings: ready for every eventuality. There’s nothing worse for your diet than being hangry and surrounded by nasties from the naughty list seductively calling your name. I also ensure I’ve got my gym kit with me, for impromptu urges to work out (yes, I do actually get them these days – freak!).

8/. Reduce carbs

Starchy carbs are not your friends. Bread, pasta, potatoes, white rice – get in the sea, the lot of ya! I eat only wholegrain seeded bread (one slice as toast per day, in the morning with two scrambled eggs and maybe a small avo, a few mushrooms or tomatoes), sweet potatoes instead of regular ones, brown rice. Portion control is key: little and often works best for me.

9/. Gym/weights/classes

BodyPump is BRUTAL – but it works. Ditto Spin. I spend every minute of each class looking at the clock above the instructor’s head, willing it to be over. But when it is – oh the buzz! The rush of endorphins coupled with the smug knowledge that you’ve completed a super-tough workout and will be burning calories for the rest of the day is worth the pain. The gym is good too – I use my watch to see how many calories I’ve burned which keeps me motivated – but for fast results, the high-intensity classes are where it’s at. Plus those grim-faced gym receptionists levy a fine if you cancel one with less than 24hrs to go, so there’s no dropping out after work when you just CBA and are fantasising about lying on the sofa scratching your arse and watching a boxset whilst eating Cheerios from the box (or is that just me?).

Who says you can’t wear lipstick to the gym?

Oh, and get some Sweaty Betty workout gear (preferably half price in the sale because it ain’t cheap). It’s the shit. If you look and feel good in your gear, you’re more likely to get it on and get shredding.

Sweaty Betty: the best for comfort and fit (and no, I’m not on commission)

10/ Be App-y!

There are TONS of apps and YouTube videos you can work out to in the comfort of your own home, but for me the best one is FIIT (click here to get from the App Store). It has a wide variety of free workouts for varying abilities and results, and they are a manageable 25 or 40 minutes long. I squeeze in a few a week in between the gym and classes.

11/. Power to the Playlists

Soundcloud, Spotify, Mixcloud…whichever your cloud, crank it up LOUD! The faster the beat, the quicker you’ll move your fat feet, so make it techno or house music all the way, baby!

10/. Photograph your progress

As well as weighing yourself and recording the results in a notebook trainspotter-stylee, plus taking regular body measurements for inch loss, snap a few pics to track your progress. Refer back to how you looked at the start to keep you focused. I had more chins than a Chinese phonebook just a few short months ago! The comments from people will encourage you too (ignore the skinny-shamers: they’re just jel!).

What the…?! I never thought I’d see the day I had abs

 

11/. Get some fitspo

Have a picture of your ideal body goal saved on your phone to spur you on. These gorgeous girlies with their ripped abs are my current fitsporation. They are abs-olutely flab-less!

Abspo – go on girls!

 

Ok, so if you’ve read thus far you may be thinking “Yeah, yeah…this is all obvious stuff…nothing new to see here…” Well, now for my piece de la resistance. Ladies, if you’re perimenopausal or have already gone through the change (I had a surgical menopause mid-thirties which you can read more about here ) I give you…drum roll…

12/ Tibolone

This stuff is magic, masquerading as HRT. But not just any HRT. It’s the souped-up, lowered suspension, pimped-up, boy-racer of the hormone replacement therapy world. Instead of regular HRT, which contains oestrogen and progesterone, Tibolone is converted by the body into three components: oestrogen, progesterone, and….testosterone. And therein lies the difference. It’s a game-changer. Your energy levels, sex drive and general joie de vivre will soar, your body fat will plummet and your muscle mass will increase. Get to your GP and get some pronto*. Thank me later.

it’s HRT, Jim, but not as we know it…

So if your fitness levels are in freefall, your weight is climbing, and your grip on your wobbly bits is as loose as Britain’s Brexit plan, it’s time to take back control of your borders. Surely if bumbling Boris can become our next prime minister, you can shift a few stone?! Of course you can. Good luck!

*DISCLAIMER: I’m not a doctor. I’m not a fitness guru, a nutritionist, nor a personal trainer. I sell make-up for a living. This advice – in fact, ALL the tips here – are purely based on observations and learnings I’ve made since I began my fitness journey a few short months ago. I repeat: I am not a doctor. Everyone’s different and responds differently to different things, and Tibolone is a serious hormone-altering medication with side-effects, like any other. If you follow my plan and end up with Popeye-style biceps and a beard that would put Brian Blessed to shame, don’t come knocking at my door. Got it? Good.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

 

 

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Cowering Fella, Hidden Dragon http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/2016/09/cowering-fella-hidden-dragon.html/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=cowering-fella-hidden-dragon Tue, 13 Sep 2016 07:01:00 +0000 http://lifeabirdseyeview.com/2016/09/cowering-fella-hidden-dragon.html/                                             Hormones. They should really be called horn-moans, because they mostly make you either horny or moany, and let’s face it, it could go […]

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Hormones. They should really be called horn-moans, because they mostly make you either horny or moany, and let’s face it, it could go either way. Most men would probably argue that unfortunately, the latter is more likely for us girls.

Whereas men generally seem to have the luxury of flatlining hormone levels, if there was an ECG-style monitor for our wildly fluctuating measurements I reckon the needle would be bouncing about all over the place, so frequent are the spikes and dips. The recordings would probably be off the top of the charts: “nurse, we’re gonna need some bigger graph paper here…”

photo credit

If a man’s hormones were measured in earthquake terms over the course of a month, the changes would be barely discernable on the Richter scale; those of the average PMT-ravaged female, on the other hand, could soar to ten on the seismograph at a moment’s notice – and the resulting fallout could be every bit as damaging to inanimate objects as a quake of that magnitude. If you can sense the rumble of an imminent event coming from a furious female, it’s time for hubbies everywhere to run for cover.

I know that positive thinking is absolutely vital to happiness, and I’m pretty good at applying The Secret to my life these days, but I reckon sometimes even the ever-cheerful Mary Poppins struggled when faced with agonising period pains and a crop circle of acne on her chin.

A bit like the British weather, whereby it’s entirely possible to experience all four seasons in one day, thus a woman can experience the full spectrum of emotions in a matter of hours…or even minutes. The melting pot of feelings can go from gently simmering resentment to bubbling rage and back in the time it takes to boil your breakfast egg. Like an Alfa Romeo, I’ve been known to go 0-60 in 3.8 seconds, as the heady hormonal cocktail courses through my veins, temples bulging. I can be singing in the shower seconds later, quite innocently, as if nothing’s happened.

Here’s a typical day in the life of a hormonal woman’s psyche:

4am – I am a lobster being lowered into a giant pan of boiling water. I scream as the searing heat touches my shell, pincers snapping together in terror, when…..arrrgggghhhh!

Stop.

I’m not a lobster.

That was a horrific nightmare from which I’ve just jolted awake, dripping in sweat, courtesy of my soaring hormone levels. I catch a glimpse of Mother Nature chuckling from the doorway. Oh you hilarious little prankster, you, I think sarcastically as I wring my bedsheets out with a deep sigh. Time to lie awake for an hour now whilst my racing heart and dangerously high blood pressure revert to normal levels. Whatever “normal” is, when you’re a menopausal mid-lifer.
Current mood: steaming.

6.30am – my alarm pierces the peace, heralding the start of a brand new day. Oh joy. Having laid awake conjuring up unlikely scenarios to worry about in my head for an hour or so after the nightmare, I finally fall into a deep, dreamless slumber….only to be rudely awoken by the alarm on my phone an hour later. I prise my bulging boiled-egg eyeballs back into their sockets and head for the shower.
Current mood: meh.

7am – having boiled myself alive in the shower, I’m now hanging my head out of the window, tongue lolling like a dog in a car, furiously trying to cool my red-raw face down enough to slap on my make-up so I don’t frighten small children in the street.
Current mood: desperate.

8am – Make-up applied, I stand back and look critically at my reflection in the mirror. Hmm. I was aiming for a nice wide red smile like Ronald McDonald, but may have inadvertently recreated The Grimace instead. Or maybe The Grinch. When you work in a customer-facing role you need to be rocking a toothy grin at all times…even if it is painted on with the help of an indelible lip stain. Thank Christ for make-up, eh? No resting bitch faces here, just miiiles of smiiiles. I skip (yeah, right) off to the station, for another thrilling day at work.
Current mood : resigned.

8.30am – Starbucks: I witness a jaw-droppingly rude middle-aged female customer (“did she really just say that?”) testing the barista’s patience to the limit, and I give the poor girl a knowing look, commending her silently for displaying such remarkable restraint and resisting the urge to reach out and grab Ms Skinny Latte by the throat. Instead she simply smiles sweetly, gently singing Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” under her breath, presumably to drown out the sound of the demanding (“…and make it decaf!”) diva’s incessant whinging.

Having worked for twenty-plus years in retail, it’s a finely-honed skill to be able to rise above the derogatory treatment we so often receive, as a result of being considered the lowest rung on the economic food chain; the single-celled amoeba of the working world. Ironically, lots of service industry staff are more intelligent than the people abusing them, but that’s a topic for another day.

Whereas I may have once ran sobbing to the stockroom, now my outer shell is an impenetrable as that of a cockroach. It’s my “give a shit forcefield” (unless I’m hormonal of course, in which case I may still have the occasional quivering upper lip). Clearly the customer in this case is being governed by her out-of-control hormones, which are causing her to publicly derail like a faulty high-speed train. Or maybe she’s just a moody mare all the time. Whatever.

The thing about working in the retail industry, specifically beauty retail, where 90% of your clients are women is that they, too, are all caught in the evil clutches of Mother Nature and her hormone-tweaking high-jinks. As women we are generally able to recognise the signs of a fellow strung-out oestrogen slave and cut each other some slack accordingly, because if we didn’t there’d be daily murders (or at least a fair amount of hair-pulling and hissy-fits).
Current mood: hangry (hungry/angry – dangerous combo).

1pm – lunchtime. Now if there’s one thing guaranteed to perk up a progesterone-pumped bird, it’s food, specifically chocolate. We can make light work of a family-sized bar of Dairy Milk, and still find space for a Costa (Costa Fortune) Hot Chocolate with whipped cream. Well, I can anyway (even if my teeth are practically melting before my very eyes with sugar-induced decay). Chocolate is my kryptonite. I eat it in the same way Popeye eats his spinach – flip-top head and sling it in from a great height (although it tends to instantly make my thighs bulge, as opposed to the biceps as in Popeye’s case). Oh well, needs must.
Current mood: ecstatic.

5.30pm –  Having made it through the day selling my socks off and keeping my (mostly) lovely customers happy with lotions, potions and wrinkle-smoothing serums, I give myself a mental high five. The delectable products will soothe those fellow hormonally-challenged women, thus affording them the strength and confidence required to fight another day. I’m performing a much-needed service to the sisterhood.
Current mood: content.

5.45pm – I arrive at the station in a good mood, having hit my sales target at work….which immediately dissipates as I see the crowds and it dawns on me that the trains are, once again, up the spout. I clench my fists as the red mist descends and my pupils flash crimson. I don’t need this, I’m knackered. It’s tiring being so goddamn nice, day in, day out, isn’t it?

I want to throw my head back and roar like a lion, but instead I settle for a subtle foot-stamp, grit my teeth and do my best to stay calm. Commuting is not good for the blood pressure; I can feel my arteries hardening as we speak. I wedge a Twirl sideways in my mouth to stop me passing on my “feedback” to the blameless platform staff out of sheer frustration.
Current mood: raging bull.

7.15pm – I finally collapse through the door, shattered. Andy spots the Moody Troll Who Lives Under The Bridge expression and cracks on with the dinner. Oh he’s a keeper alright. Food once again sorts me out (along with a fistful of Hormone Replacement Therapy tablets which are like crack to a prematurely menopausal old goat like myself) and I’m back coasting in second gear as opposed to revving a written-off car (that Alfa Romeo, perhaps?) against a wall in 5th. Aaaaand relax!

I resist the urge to crack open a bottle (ok, barrel) of Sauvignon, as the resulting pounding headache will probably set the recurring lobster dream off again. The insomnia is bad enough as it is, without waking up at 2am with a mouth as dry as Ghandi’s raving flip flop. Peeling my tongue off the roof of my mouth before I can start moaning again is too much like hard work, so I stick to tea tonight.
Current mood: flatlining food coma.




8pm – my oldest gal pals are wittering away on the group Whatsapp like little chirpy sparrows, which always lifts my spirits. We share our news, slag off numpties on CBB and plan our next night out. There may be the odd hormonal rant thrown in occasionally but no-one’s judging. God, I love those birds.
Current mood: grateful.

10pm – time to hit the hay in an attempt to restore harmony to my wired mind and battered body, before those pesky hormones start going haywire at 3am once more….
Current mood: like, so over it.



This great Allan Sanders illustration sums up PMT perfectly


There. You see what I mean? If my mood and hormone levels were plotted on a graph they’d probably resemble The Rockies. I know I’m not alone. It’s not hard to spot those poor beggars in the grip of pre-menstrual tension. They’re the ones breathing fire for a start. Boyfriends up and down the land know to perform a timid Riverdance on eggshells once a month for fear of waking the sleeping dragons within their beloved.

Even a usually placid woman, ordinarily the embodiment of good manners and self-control, can transform into Godzilla once Aunt Flo decides to pay her a visit. I’ve seen ordinarily meek-and-mild types foam at the mouth like a rabid badger over the tiniest thing once the old ovaries get all out of kilter.

My sister and I often laugh about the time she literally ripped the clothes from her own back, Incredible Hulk-style, when throwing a tantrum as a twenty-something because she couldn’t find anything to wear. Literally tore the arms off her blouse in teeth-clenched fury whilst getting ready one stressful morning at our parents’ house. Now that was a sight to behold. I’m cracking up now at the memory, much to the bemusement of my fellow commuters as I travel, alone, to work. The murderous look on her face was so special that when we caught each other’s eye in the wardrobe mirror we just dissolved into hysterical laughter. Which at least diffused the ridiculous situation.

You’d think, in this day and age, someone would have invented something that would have put paid to all this, this unpleasantness; being held hostage each month, a hormone-loaded gun to our heads, as we play Russian roulette with our relationships, not to mention our sanity. If men had to suffer such indignity time and again, year in, year out, you can bet your Always Ultra they’d have come up with a fitting solution decades ago…

Oh well girls, what can we do, eh? You just gotta bumble your way through those few tough days each month in a state of low-level irritation, doing your best not to draw attention to yourself, or commit any crimes punishable by the law until the irrational rage passes.

If you sense a scene from The Exorcist is about to unfold as you become possessed by the evil endocrine spirits, it’s probably best to lock yourself in the bathroom and slowly count to ten until the venom-spitting, head-spinning frenzy leaves you.

And then, in your fifties, the hormonal soup runs dry and the canteen shuts up shop. The crimson tsunami suddenly retreats….and you’re finally free. You listen for the voice of the evil Mr Hyde, but no – only Dr Jeckyll remains. A wonderful sense of peace washes over you. You hear the birds singing, smell the delicate flowers in bloom. The sun shines more brightly.

Only then, you look around…and wonder where the hell everyone’s gone…

photo credit

This article has also appeared at Niume.

 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

 

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