As the creeping tendrils of dawn’s rays lit the pathway ahead of me, I became suddenly conscious of the fact that my joggers – that were busily and begrudgingly pounding the pavement – may be waking those with bedrooms nearest the road.  It was early.  Too early.   And I worry too much.  I also have a tendency to over-think things.  I think.

Suddenly my rhythmic reverie was broken by the rowdy rumble of old ute as it hurtled noisily towards me on the road.  Three burly men crowded the front cabin, spilling out of the open windows.   As they drove past me, they waved heartily, wolf whistled and beeped the horn.  I think they were trying to get my attention.

Was I mortified?  Possibly.  Flattered?  Ummm… uh huh!

I know.  Not very politically correct.  Dreadful, in fact.  But frankly, it doesn’t take a lot to bake my biscuit nowadays.  Actually, that’s why I was out running.  Too many biscuits.

Now to be clear, I’m no Cindy Crawford clone.  My belly was once home to each of my four children, two of them rooming in at once (hello twins!), and I fondly bear the physical reminders of my four proudest achievements.  I also have the not so proud reminders of too many biscuits.  That said, I owe a lot to compression running garments.   Enough said.

But what I liked about those men on their way to work at some frightfully early hour was their sense of fun… and the fact that they wanted to make me smile.  Which they did.  And that seemed to make them even more jovial.   Even at 6am, that kind of interchange really does bake my biscuit.  Who smiles at 6am!

So for the rest of the day, I decided that I wouldn’t take myself too seriously.  I couldn’t naval gaze anyway, on account of my naval being covered by the aforementioned compression garments.  Which was a blessing, considering the excess biscuits…

Instead I stopped and had a laugh with the local Baker (whilst buying more biscuits).  And then I bent the strictly healthy lunchbox rule to sneak in a few sweet bikkies as a surprise for the kids.  At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the crumbs.  The resident schoolyard pigeons would take care of that.

“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.” Margaret Lee Runbeck

And so it took three men travelling together in a rowdy old ute at the crack of dawn to remind me not to take life too seriously.  And that it’s ok to enjoy a few biscuits every now and then.  Even the slightly nutty, non-politically correct ones.

What’s your favourite type of biscuit?