Wendyl Nissen: Beware the smug bug

Not so long ago, a friend stopped a conversation mid-sentence by referring to me as "Mrs Smug-pants from Grey Lynn".

I had been discoursing at length on my general contented state and how fortunate I was to find myself enjoying such a wonderful life.

My sermon had possibly been going on longer than is allowed in these parts.

"You want to watch out," she added. "Smug is not an attractive attribute. It's pronounced 'mug' with a silent 's'."

I shut up, but not before wondering if you could pronounce "judgmental snarky bitch" without any silent letters whatsoever.

And I heeded her advice for all of a week before I simply reverted to smug.

"Here we go with the eggs again," is something my husband mutters frequently as I parade through the house clutching warm, freshly laid bundles of goodness.

"Ah, the purity of it," I say. "Wholesome goodness, right at our front door."

Which is true, as the hens have taken to laying rather conveniently in the bush by the front steps.

"It's great you baked bread again today, but do we really have to hear about it all afternoon?" is another thing my husband says frequently, when he's not saying, "Thank you for pointing out the additive-free, toxin-free, chlorine and fluoride-free, heavy metal-free and food-miles-free content of dinner. Can you just shut up for a minute while we eat it?"

"Do you think I'm a bit smug," I finally asked him after I bought the water distiller and started making drinking water out of rainwater collected from our roof.

"Don't get me started," he replied, but he started anyway and within a matter of moments had listed an impressive 20 topics on which his wife could be found to be smug. "And need I point out that you drive a Prius?"

He was referring to an episode of South Park in which the whole town started driving "Pious" hybrid cars and created a cloud of "smug" which blocked the sun and plunged the town into darkness.

So I have put myself on a smug diet, trying not to be too pleased with myself, too happy with my state of affairs or too informed about anything to do with general good health and wellbeing.

Until this week, when I went to talk to some people who were having a "wellness week" at work and were interested in hearing about my toxic-free way of living.

"I hesitate to share this with you," I said cautiously. "But since I began following some simple rules, such as not putting anything on my body I wouldn't eat, not eating anything with more than five ingredients listed on the label and no longer drinking to excess, I have not been sick for 18 months.

"Not one cold bug, flu virus or tummy bug has taken hold of me, such is the purity of my immune system. No flu jabs for me!"

I vaguely remember touching the table with my left hand, hoping it was wood and capable of preventing a smug jinx taking hold.

"Touch wood, ha ha," I added.

I came home and informed my husband that the presentation had gone very well.

"Not too smug then," he said hopefully.

The next day I was as sick as a dog. Runny nose, headache, nagging cough, sandpaper eyes.

The table I touched was obviously constructed out of highly toxic, fossil fuel-based plastic.

When I worked in weekly women's magazines, there was a strong belief among celebrities that the moment they appeared on the cover of a magazine revealing how wonderful their "special" relationship was, they were doomed.

Within weeks it would be over and their smug moment turned into single reality. Which made life quite tough for editors like me who had to persuade couples to share their intimate love stories.

I should have known better.

"Echinacea! Zinc! Ginger! Vitamin C! Garlic! Chicken soup! Free-range chicken, that is!" was all that could be heard from my bedroom for a few days.

"That'll teach you," said my husband, while handing over the 10th cup of ginger tea with honey and lemon (stirred in once it had gone off the boil so as not to kill the healing properties).

"Do you have to be quite so smug?" I moaned.