Shower, Slippers, Chai tea and the paper… Today’s glossy lift out magazine lures me in with a catchy headline promising a good read so I flip the pages to find the editorial…

…ohhh 10% off this summers lipstick shades…

…bronzed goddess tanning lotion, streakless and odour free, wow!…

…a double spread on this weeks “hottest” fashion…

I finally come to the editorial which after a skim read, under-delivered on it’s catchy headline and turned out to be just another beauty editor trying to persuade me to join the masses on the latest detox diet that is guaranteed to leave me slim for summer and is all the rage in Hollywood.

I take to my wardrobe and pull out my jeans. I dutifully wiggle and squeeze into them basically cutting off the circulation to my lower legs (I swear it’s the washing machine that makes them smaller) and regardless of the little love handles on my hips, fondly referred to as a muffin top, creeping out I’d rather not admit it’s time to move up a dreaded size. I walk to the mirror and proceed to poke my muffin top and my mind starts it’s barrage of insults. “You’re getting so fat” “You need to lose some weight” “Geeezzz Girl” Logic should win this one and I should just buy a new pair of jeans but I don’t ever work up the courage to go and try on 15 pairs to just be disappointed in front of those unforgiving change room mirrors, to me shopping is a very scary idea of fun.

I jump on the net to check my email but get side-tracked along the way with a pop-up window — a glamorous blonde with luxuriant locks is offering me FREE hair extensions* — I finally log-on and watch as my inbox steadily fills with spam — offers for penis and breast enlargements are the familiar regulars, along with speccy pharmaceutical weightloss pills and a plea from a 21 year old Russian beauty who has inherited millions and needs my bank account details. Yawn.

Off to a casual meet with a girlfriend, as I wait for her at the café I flick through some magazines, gorgeous models smile up at me from the pages with their fit bodies and perfect white teeth — the gossip magazines are once again slamming celebrities caught without their makeup on, and how poor Jessica Simpson has gone from fit to fat!

“You look amazing, have you lost weight” my girlfriend greets me with, I assure her that “No, most definitely not, if anything I’ve put it on and I’m having such a bad hair day I am now considering extensions” We are both level headed, intelligent women but our quick catch up is dominated by conversations about our weight and appearance.

I get back into my car and look down at my stomach rolls as I fasten the seatbelt — guilt comes over me — why did I eat that muffin??…that voice in my head arks up and tells me quick, pedal to the metal get to the gym and burn some calories, NOW WOMAN!

I meet my trainer who gently persuades me to check my weight before we start — the anxiety around stepping up onto the scales is unbelievable! My heart rate rises, my cheeks flush hot, I feel as if I’m naked with nothing to hide behind… It’s almost humiliating and it’s definitely not good news… time to hit the bike… with renewed motivation and self-loathing I sweat, swear and hope that I’ve burned off more than this mornings muffin!

The televisions around the gym keep my attention off the pain as I watch music videos with petite women scantily clad gyrating up against each other. During the ad breaks I’m sold everything from makeup to anti-wrinkle cream to calorie controlled living programs! I look around at the other women in the gym sweating and fighting their own body demons. I’m reminded of rats on a play wheel and I question myself about the hundreds of dollars a year I fork out for this “privilege” to fight an uphill, endless body battle.

I finally drive home and can’t understand why I feel so frustrated, exhausted and low today. Meanwhile billboards of picture-perfect women and men flash by remind me that I’m not yet what I should be — that there’s weight to be lost, hair to be glossed, teeth to be brightened and wrinkles to be smoothed.. and it’s not even lunch time

… does my day sound familiar?…

My name is Caroline Pemberton and I am like you… There isn’t a part of my body that I can’t find fault with and I spend more time each day wishing it was different than loving it for what it is. It’s tragic that this incredible instrument nature blessed me with, which silently wards off disease, turns food into energy, engages and co-ordinates hundreds of muscles to allow me to stand, walk and run whilst seamlessly addressing the needs of some one trillion cells it is made up of, has become the subject of my ungrateful disappointment.

So my question to you is:

Is it time we question not only ourselves but also where the pressure to conform to an ideal comes from? Do particular industries actually profit from this negative relationship we foster with our bodies? Could they have a motivation in ensuring we are all very much aware that we don’t look like the models on the billboards? After all everything I don’t like about my body the market seems to have a body solution for and at a certain dollar figure, my body, like an object, can be honed and worked on…