Somedays are delightful. Autumn is full of them - it's something to do with the light, or perhaps the hint that the cold weather is coming and we better enjoy the last of the warm days. On Friday, I surfed in the morning - clean, offshore winds, warm water, three foot waves - perfection. It was crowded and there were bigger sets coming through that had me scrambling. Usually I count my strokes as I paddle out the back or across the channel. Twenty four, twenty five - and rest. But on this morning, I had to windmill those arms for a hundred counts to not be smashed by the sets, and employ the inelegant turtle roll, whereby you hope you're as straight on to the breaking water as you can, flip the board and you upside down, hold it close, and let the wave break over you. It's a hard maneovure, but I did it, and felt strong.

Texting my bestie in Tassie, we compare notes - the surf, our jelly arms from paddling too much. I tell her I'm trying to take it easy. To know my limits. There's no point in spending three hours in the water if I can't move for three days.

I have to remember I'm becoming an old woman, after all. I try to keep fit. I do weights in the living rooms. Walk. Surf as much as I can. I probably should go to gym.

'Ah', came the besties reply. 'the older ya get, the more you have to look after your meat sack'. Typical Buddhist.

Unknown surfer, Marrawah, Tas - my image

I say that because it's a view that reminds us that we are aging, and that our fit youth is receding and subject to decay. Anicca, anicca, anicca. Nothing is permanent. We can't overly identify with the body or the physical self, because it doesn't last.

Of course, there's also the middle path - you can't indulge too much, nor neglect oneself. You have to look after the meat sack.

Ironically, I spent the rest of the morning with Mum looking at at clothes down the shops and talking about what's flattering 'at my age'. I was after a cool cover all shirt for Bali later in the year, and one hadn't turned up yet at the op shop. Mum led me into a boutique clothing shop and found one for me on the sales rack which she proceeded, generously, to buy for me.

I couldn't help but be pleased I'd found the perfect item of clothing to cover up my meat sack in the hot Indo weather.

But I wasn't giving up yet, and text my irreverant mate back.

'Maybe not meat sack. Maybe more like worn leather vintage handbag, one owner, needs some conditioner but still functioning and looking alright for it's age'.