I’m Back, Bru – Limping, Laughing & Telling People ‘Tsek’ with a Smile

By Lycette Wilson

I’m back, bru. With busted ribs, admin rage, fresh levels of midlife sass, and so much Saffa spice you'd think I marinated in Mrs Ball's for a week.

 Back in Action: Limping, Laughing & Wondering If My Life Policy Covers This BS..

Back like a moegoe at Builders Warehouse on a Saturday morning—clueless, cranky, but fully committed.

Been through the wars, hey.

A week that felt like I got klapped by a frozen Viennas pack and then emotionally sandpapered by life admin.

Let’s break it down.

Literally.

Because – my rib did.

 The Injury: Gym 1, Rib 0

Not a graceful Pilates injury.

No slow-mo downward dog drama.

Nah.

This was me on the treadmill, vibing too hard to my Spotify playlist, thinking I’m one gym session away from a high-waisted jeans comeback.

Enter: busted rib.

Exit: dignity, basic breathing, and the ability to sneeze without praying.

And Dutch healthcare? 10 days later

“Take paracetamol.”

“Don’t cough.”

“Good luck.”

No sympathy, no Brandy, no Deep Heat.

Just vibes. And a waiting list.

If I was in SA, Ouma would've:

Poured me a drink the size of a two-litre Coke,

Wrapped me in a blanket from PEP,

And told me to stop being dramatic, “You're not the first woman with a sore rib, you’re just loud about it- “Gaan help jou Pa met die bakstenen buite”  soek jy iets om oor te huil?

 Admin Olympics – Dutch Edition

Starting a business here?

Like applying for a visa to Mordor.

Forms, passwords, waiting periods longer than an Eskom excuse.

All this admin and my overthinking makes SARS look like a friendly uncle with Wi-Fi.

At one point, I actually yelled at my computer, “Is this admin, or is this a spiritual test?”

Spoiler: it’s both.

And I failed.

Twice.

I looked at the mirror while “pikking n traan” Am I the Drama? Silence .. like Achmed said to peanut

 Then “If you’re looking for n Snotklap, try someone else — today is not the day”

Then came her.

The cashier with the energy of a 90s traffic cop and the warmth of a cold kotch.

She stared at me like I’d asked her to pronounce “Gqeberha” for a school speech.

Didn’t greet. Didn’t blink. Just judged me silently.

But I smiled.

Softly.

Sweetly.

And channelled the ancestors:

“Tsek, teef.”

In my soul.

In my spirit.

With love, obviously.

She didn’t know what I said – probably thought it was a new Afrikaans dairy product.

But I left victorious, rib twitching and all.

 Haircut Pending: Midlife Reset Incoming

The hair? Still on my head, but not for long.

The chop is booked for the 12th, with all the emotional intensity of a full-blown midlife rebranding.

It’s not just a haircut.

It’s a line in the sand.

A declaration.

“I’m done hiding behind my fringe like an expired Woolies auntie dodging life.”

I’ve cried, I’ve snapped, I’ve Googled “do broken ribs cause personality shifts,” and now I’m ready.

 Life Feels Like:

Driving the N1 with one wiper, one working speaker, and no snacks

Listening to your cousin explain crypto after three tequilas

Trying to find parking at Clearwater Mall in December

But through it all:

 Still here

 Still dramatic

 Still telling people “tsek” with a smile and body lotion in my handbag

 Moral of the Meltdown?

You can be chaotic and still wear lipstick.

You can be healing and still have thoughts of telling someone to voetsek, spiritually.

You can glow AND groan.

Midlife is not a crisis.

It’s just realising your tolerance for BS has expired and your new hobbies are rage-walking and plotting haircuts like assassinations.

So ja, my bru.

I’m back.

A little bent.

A lot louder.

Still fabulous.

And if anyone asks? I’m thriving. Or lying. Or just under a weighted blanket eating NikNaks.

Either way, it’s a win.

xoxo – Your slightly cracked, highly caffeinated, and always brutally honest Saffa expat in recovery

Coolest Xpat™ vibes. Copyright chaos managed by yours truly — Queen of Chaos.

Blog, banter & borderline brilliance at: expatvibes.net

Chow for now. Stay spicy.