I had my suspicions before, but now I’m absolutely sure of it – I have a severe case of reversed body dysmorphia. At 40 years of age, with a predilection for excessive amounts of Sauvignon Blanc, the appetite of a truck driver, most definitely on the cuddly side of medium and with cellulite increasingly setting up camp on my hips and thighs, what I see in the mirror is a kick-ass chick in the prime of her life. This disorder doesn’t just have me happy and unaffected by the few pounds I probably need to shed, but it also accompanies me on any shopping spree along with another disorder: dysbillionaria. What this means is that I shop like a wealthy skinny person. And I am most definitely neither. The net result is a vast selection of designer jeans that not only cost Way Too Much but are also so tight I cut my blood flow when I squeeze aforementioned cuddly-side-of-medium body into them. It’s no mean feat, by the way – it takes serious determination to pour Anna into a pair of size 28 super skinny jeans. In fact, I think I should be given some sort of award.
What has lead to this dire diagnosis? An exchange with my Swedish bestie, is what. We’ll stick with the nickname I’ve always used for her when blogging: Foxy.
Foxy has always been one of my idols. Not only is she the smartest woman I know, but she is also the funniest, wittiest, sharpest, sweetest and thoroughly real person you’re ever likely to happen upon. A female version of B, you might say, and every bit as much of a straight arrow. I like straight arrows – they appeal to my OCD and need for order, be it of the emotional stability that I sometimes lack or to just naturally adhere to the Anna Way of Doing Things. Beyond all of that, Foxy is also absolutely beautiful (a cross between Jessica Alba and Eva Mendes) and super sporty so has a body that most 20-somethings would kill for. She’s got the whole package plus a bunch of bonus features, as if that olive complexion wasn’t enough. Oh, and she’s always been that LITTLE bit slimmer than I am, the cow.
We’re both turning 40 this year. I’m not at all fussed, but suspect I may be eyeball deep in denial and that reality – whatever that is – might hit me like a tsunami any moment, suddenly and violently, and I’ll end up modelling myself on Patsy Stone. So when Foxy tells me she is increasingly starting to freak out, I can’t for the life of me understand why. So I asked.
She says she feels old. OK, so I kind of – KIND OF – get that bit. I sometimes flinch at myself when required to state my age in whatever situation. 40 does sound and seem old, especially if I rewind 25 years and to how I saw my mum when she was 40. I’m sure she was more mature and sorted than I am now at the same age. Or maybe she wasn’t? Perhaps Monkey sees me as old and ancient? Still, 40 doesn’t bother me, it truly doesn’t, but it does worry me somewhat that someone as incredible as Foxy could possibly consider herself old and also when B told me on my birthday just short of a month ago that I was “handling it really well”. Why exactly? I just turned 40, it wasn’t like I went through a grueling bout of chemotherapy!
Actually – scrap “turned 40” – I turned Goddamn Fabulous.
Nope. I don’t get it. Although it does mean Foxy, intact with all her amazing qualities, is human and has insecurities like the rest of us. All the more reason to adore her I suppose.