Body image is a frail and fragile thing. In most areas of my life I am a (seemingly) sane and sensible person, but when it comes to the perception of my own physique I am pretty much all over the place. Let’s go through the basics. I am a tall, slim girl – 180 cm without shoes and in the lower but healthy regions on the BMI scale. Really – bodywise, I’ve got no complaints. Still, within a normal week, I will have gone from thinking I’ve got the body of a Hollywood A-lister to being convinced that I’ve gained 10 kilos in 15 minutes flat. Let me elaborate.
Monday will be a good day. My Sundays pretty much always involve a at least 105 minutes of proper quality gym time, so on Monday I will float around on a cloud of athletic pride. I will feel like a mix of Xena the warrior princess and that crazy fitness lady from The Biggest Loser. In my head I will look something like this:
On Tuesday I still feel a bit like Lucy Lawless, so I skip the gym. Awesome gym-bunnies like me clearly don’t need to go to the gym as often as mere mortals.
On Wednesday I intended to go to the gym after work, but Marius had tempted me with Chinese takeout, and let’s be honest here – deep-fried chicken in orange sauce coupled with spring rolls trumps the gym any day of the week. I will feel stuffed and content, like a chubby cat in a sunny window pane, until I stumble across the shiny pink blog of a thimble-sized socialite in a bikini and designer lash extensions.
90 minute workout powered by Britney Spears and Lady Gaga. In my head I look like Megan Fox, and everyone else at the gym look like red-faced, puny try-hards who probably only work out twice a year, who are they kidding, they will be stuck in their old habits in no time, watching trashy reality shows while puring liquid chocolate down their throats! I will grin through my sweat and be the epitome of a smug bitch.
On Friday I will be watching trashy reality shows while pouring liquid chocolate down my throat. Jersey Shore and America’s Next Top Model have been particularly good this season. There will probably also be some deep-fried Chinese food involved.
On Saturday I might need some new underwear and will decide that I very likely might have the smallest boobs ever known to man. In my head they could just as well be concave, almost an entirely new type of body part – an anti-breast if you will. I will also have leg hair to rival a wolverine and arms so pale they glow in the dark. Instead of underwear I will buy expensive Belgian chocolate and wallow in self-pity.
105 minute workout. I will again feel like the superbreed mutation of Megan Fox, Lucy Lawless and that woman from The Biggest Loser. Also, my boobs will have magically grown 3 cup sizes overnight, and my awesome pale complexion will make me stand out from the hordes of tan try-hards like a shiny beacon of natural healthiness. I will skip home afterwards, leg hair flapping in the wind, without a care in the world.
See what I mean? Body image is a tricky thing indeed. Now, this is in no way as bad as it used to be – I remember when I was about 15 I was convinced that I had abnormally short eye lashes – yes, eye lashes – and bought handfuls of different types of mascaras that all promised me long, flutter-worthy lashes. Of course I only ended up short-lashed and broke, but the obsession continued for months, and I would stare longingly (not to say creepily) at the long, luscious lashes attached to my friends while cursing my own freakishly stumpy eye hair. I remember accidentally going to school without mascara once – I’m pretty sure I nearly had a panic attack. People who wish you could be 15 again – I am side-eyeing you SO hard. 25 is heaven compared to 15.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah – I’m basically nuts. But so are probably you as well. It seems to get better with age.