by Clare Taylor (Thu Jul 16, 2009)
It's that time of year again. The time when I start to realise that control top tights and Spanx pants, whilst clearly a gift from God for most of the year, are not going to cut the mustard for very much longer.
Why? Because, as sure as night follows day, the Waterloo of all women over 25 years of age is approaching. The summer holiday will soon be upon us - and I just know that it's going to send me falling headlong into the ‘Reality Gap' once again.
At the grand old age of ‘thirty-twelve' the Reality Gap sneaks up on me every year when I prepare to bare by the swimming pool. It is the difference between how I see myself in my mind's eye - young, toned, free of cellulite and the ravages of too many full-fat latte's - and how I actually appear in the real world.
The real world is a place flooded with bright, unforgiving light, where there is nowhere to hide apart from under your sarong. The real world is where I'm often left wondering; who is that woman reflected in the shop window, wearing my clothes and looking like my mum, for chrissake?
Every year I prepare for this annual holiday humiliation with trips to the gym, finding sun cream that will protect my skin without making me look like Marcel Marceau, waxing, shaving, and generally kidding myself that it will all make a difference.
And as the holiday approaches I keep up my delusion by rarely addressing my image face-on in the mirror, leaving that for when I floss or put on mascara (head tilted to make sure I don't see the grey hairs or the crows' feet), or take a careful tummy-pulled-in sideways glance to check that I'm presentable before leaving the house in the mornings.
Otherwise I do the mirror dance, dodging my reflection, making complicated movements to avoid seeing myself at unflattering angles and never - but NEVER - looking at myself naked. OK, that's a lie. I do, occasionally, but only without my contact lenses in. With the blinds still drawn. And of course, with my stomach pulled into my backbone. Under those circumstances, I think to myself, ‘I look fairly good for my age. Definitely in my thirties, at any rate...'
But finally we reach our holiday destination. Still I kid myself that I'm doing fine. The Reality Gap is now so wide that I am even capable of believing that I look ‘five years younger' as I sit by the pool. I congratulate myself smugly on not looking like the slightly less genetically fortunate lady toasting herself a fetching shade of dark red a few sun beds down, and imagine that those last minute gym visits really have paid off after all...
Click. ‘Smile!' says my husband as he takes some shots of me and the boys, and for once, feeling quite presentable, I do.
And then, still pool-side, I make the fatal mistake, and check the photographs on the display screen. Suddenly, I'm free-falling into the Reality Gap, for there she is again: My mother. In my swimsuit. How dare she?
Digital cameras, I have decided, are the work of the devil. Instant pool-side feedback on your cellulite and wrinkles? Who on earth, over the age of 25 and possessing anything approaching a normal figure, needs that?
So I have taken a unilateral decision, and am confiscating the camera this year. It's the only way to avoid reaching terminal velocity once more. On our next holiday, my Reality Gap and I will be staying safely behind the lens.
