I'm terrible as I never take my make-up off at night, which I

“I’m terrible as I never take my make-up off at night, which I know is really dreadful. Whenever I’m out partying I just can’t be bothered and now I am on ‘Loose Women’ that tends to be all the time. I hope next year holds even more parties for me.”
Thus spoke Carol Vorderman, the lively figure of wit and joy, whose words, though light in tone, carry within them a deeper reflection on celebration, imperfection, and the embrace of life’s fullness. What at first seems a confession of vanity or neglect is, in truth, a declaration of spirit—a reminder that to live well is not always to live perfectly, but to live fully, with laughter, freedom, and the willingness to seize the hour before it slips away. In her humor, there is wisdom; in her imperfection, there is humanity.

The origin of this saying lies not in solemn reflection but in jest, spoken by a woman who has lived long in the public eye and learned to temper seriousness with light. Carol Vorderman, known for her brilliance and her charm, has often been admired for discipline and intellect. Yet here she reveals a side of joyful rebellion—a refusal to let the pursuit of flawlessness steal from her the sweetness of living. By confessing that she sometimes sleeps in her make-up, she disarms the illusion of the untouchable public figure. She reminds us that to be human is to be delightfully imperfect, and that sometimes, to live well, one must choose laughter over guilt.

Though playful, her words speak to an eternal truth recognized by the sages: life is fleeting, and its pleasures are not to be postponed until the world deems them proper. The Greeks spoke of carpe diem—to seize the day—as an act of both courage and gratitude. To dance while the music plays, to celebrate without shame, is not folly but wisdom. For the one who waits for the perfect time to live will find that time has already passed. Vorderman’s light-hearted hope for “even more parties” is the echo of this ancient call to joy: that life, even amidst its weariness, demands to be celebrated.

Consider the example of Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, whose grandeur and wit were legend. She, too, knew that beauty and indulgence, when embraced with spirit, could be a kind of power. Though historians often judged her for her luxuries, her feasts, and her self-adornment, she used them as symbols of vitality—proof that even in the face of fate, she would live with passion and presence. Like Cleopatra, Vorderman’s jest holds a spark of defiance: an unwillingness to let the world’s expectations dull the shine of her humanity. For what is beauty, or joy, if it is lived only by the rules of others?

Yet within her humor also lies a quiet awareness. “I know it’s dreadful,” she admits, with that small nod to conscience that lives in us all. There is wisdom even in this self-mockery—the recognition that one’s flaws do not define one’s worth, and that balance is the mark of a wise soul. To work and to rest, to strive and to play, to care for oneself yet not become enslaved by vanity—these are the measures of harmony. Life, she implies, is not about rigid perfection but about the dance between discipline and delight.

Her hope for “more parties” may sound like the wish of one seeking pleasure, but in the ancient sense, it is a hymn to joy. For to wish for more celebration is to wish for more life—more connection, more laughter, more shared light in the darkness. In a world heavy with worry and expectation, such a wish is sacred. The great teacher Epicurus once said that joy is the proof of a life well-lived, not in excess but in appreciation. To live without joy is to live only halfway.

So, O seeker of wisdom, take this lesson from Carol’s laughter: do not fear your imperfections, nor scold yourself for moments of frivolity. Life is not a mirror that demands constant correction; it is a feast, meant to be savored. Work hard, yes—but also dance, sing, and be unafraid to be seen as imperfect. For the heart that laughs freely and celebrates boldly will live longer in memory than the one that hides behind propriety. As Vorderman reminds us, it is not the spotless face at dawn that matters, but the soul that glows with the light of having truly lived.