The editor tosses a book at me. I stare at the cover; a picture of a woman in a corporate dress blowing a kiss to a mirror reflection of her naked-self. The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Survival in the Early 21st Century.

“Yes, Ed,” I say, “and you want me to …?”

“Review it,” he says. “Normally this would be Miranda’s brief, but she’s having a mental health day.”

“More likely gorged herself on a packet of Tim Tams and a tub of ice-cream, and she’s hiding their reformation onto the outer body,” I offer. “Not really my thing Ed, and, as much as I’d like to help you out, I really can’t today. Suspicions abound that the budgie smuggler is considering doing a Kevin and staging a revenge sting on the silver streak. We could have a new prime minister by the end of the day. And, of course, I have to be there.”

“No-one cares about politics anymore. I’ll send the cadet,” he says.

“Ouch.” And, I’m secretly peeved because it spoils my chances of bumping into ‘hot legs’ as Miranda dubbed the recently-divorced sports minister. Of course, it’s his acumen that I think is hot.

“This is the stuff our readers are now after,” Ed says, pointing at the corporate kisser, “and you’re the book’s target readership, a typical 40-something professional woman.”

As I note the subtitle; Zen-like philosophy to re-program brain matter, Ed puts his hand on my head, “I wonder how much of what goes on in there is necessary?” A rather obnoxious giggle oozes from his mouth, before he snaps the order “My inbox within a week,” and then strides back to his office.

Another ouch. I, Jane Garner, had considered EVERYTHING that went on in my brain was necessary. An intelligent, highly-tuned piece of machinery.

I check out the table of contents, something about self-love and body-image. I turn to page one.

It will come as no surprise to women that an insidious monster lives within us, clogging the cranial arteries, and damning even the most robust of spirits. It perilously steals the joy from every moment. It is called ‘judgement’, and nobody, neither self nor others, escapes its poison. Take for example a woman’s inability to see beyond bodily shape. Pay attention to your thinking, and you’ll be surprised how often this monster arises. 

The first thought that comes to mind is how completely ridiculous. Us intelligent women have no time for such menial mental maunderings in the form of body-shape ponderings.

As it turns out within 15 minutes, whilst on my way home clasping The Survival Guide (as I now call it), I was jarred out of that delusion.

THE UNCONSCIOUS

Have you ever had one of those moments when your eyes find something and before you cognitively register what you’ve been looking at, you’ve already taken it in? Here I was heading home via the park when I found myself mesmorised by the perfect form of the butt walking in front of me. Studying the symmetry of the upwards and downwards motional exchange of the physical space. Admiring the pert little cheeks. Not too big; not round like a peach, but more shapely like mandarin segments, and that’s when consciousness engaged. Ewee. What am I thinking?

I was focussed on a dog’s butt.

Delusion shattered. An intelligent 40-something professional woman does have menial mental maunderings in the form of body-shape ponderings.

I know we all have ewee moments, but for god’s sake, how did I cultivate this attentional bias? Admitedly, it was a very clean, well-proportioned dog of the oodle variety, but it still got me thinking. What the heck! Perving at a dog’s butt. Am I OK? Was it possible that this was a symptom of mental degradation, possibly even serious enough to require psychiatric intervention? Had I digressed so far that it positioned me in the company of the insane?

I do have my own oodle, so is that an excuse? I determined to some degree it was, but not entirely. How did this pattern of neuronal firings manifest? As the proprietor of the brain I would like to think I had some control, but in the actual moment I can truly say that my brain had independent license.

THE UNDOING

I flipped between actual events and imagination trying to seize on some logical explanation or explanations so I could cast the wand of blame onto some ill-intended female conditioning. Does our mind get hijacked at a certain age, under certain conditions? Are we talking a gender-specific collective insanity? I wanted to say yes. I didn’t want this to be a weirdness of the solo kind.

I think back to the primary school dance class. Did I overhear Miss Julie telling Miss Fiona that Jane is enthusiastic enough, but shape-deficient? Not enough leg-length to make it into the ranks of a serious dancer. To avoid destroying the aesthetics of the front row, their strategic placement of me in the back blocks gave me ample opportunity to jealously perve my way into shape obsession.

Or was it when Miranda literally climbed into the scanner to create an image of her nose? Evidence to prove a shape malfunction; one grim enough for plastic surgery, prompting me to emphatically point out the madness of her delusion, and finishing with a critique of the perfectness of all of her other body parts, achieved through inadvertently directing my brain to download my own shape defects. Was it this rescue mission that created a neuronal shape-file?

THE UNALLURING

The very next day, I was on my way to meet Miranda - one of our thrice-weekly breakfast catch-ups - when just 20-odd steps from our waiting table another ewee moment; legs so lily-white I questioned whether they were stockinged. No they were bare. As my eye-level rose I was confronted with exposure overload, cheeks as pale as the stockingless legs, protruding under the frayed denim edges. Quite a size and not pleasant. Scandalous really. Seems to me like she was trying to mimic Bridget Jones in the short skirt, fire-pole excluded. But then I wonder: If the cheeks had of belonged to Elle MacPhearson or Jennifer Aniston, would my eyes have been insulted?

Entering the café, I see Miranda is already seated. Her pencil-thin skirt gripping her long-lean legs. A glass of water sits in the centre of the placemat in front of her. I know from past experience nothing else will land in that spot even though it’s a breakfast meeting.

“How were the Tim Tams?” I ask.

“Oh my god, how did you know,” she replies. “It was awful, I couldn’t stop myself. Ice-cream too.”

Just at that moment hot-legs walks in, wearing small black shorts and a t-shirt that flaunts the sweaty tell-tales signs of a trip to the gym. Confession time: His legs are pretty awesome. That’s when I realise we women ARE obsessed with shape. We size up men. Is their chest proportionally adequate for their midline? Are their thighs visually appealing, not too big, not too small? And, don’t even get me started on the categorisation of the female anatomy?

I think about how we get this measure of what is and what isn’t a pleasant shape. Images of magazine covers flash through my mind. How to achieve the perfect thighs, boobs, butt (note: no nose). But then, except at the supermarket checkout, no-one reads magazines anymore, so where are these messages coming from.

Of course. The internet is now queen. I think of it as a being. It’s young; it’s vibrant; it’s reckless; it’s just like a teenager. Is this juvenile power-machine directing our brain waves? And, if so who are the modern power-makers of shape? Time for research. Back to the office.

THE UNBOUNDED

The home-page fires up; it’s a news page but you wouldn’t guess by the content. The next thing I know I’m staring at Kim Kardashian’s derriere. It does have a claim to some serious internet real estate that would put it in same category as a luxury penthouse. There’s even a web entry called The Evolution of Kim Kardashian’s Booty. Note all the capitals, which gives it some importance, like it matters. Another one: 15 Times Kim Kardashian's Butt Made You Do a Double Take. The use of the word you engages you, draws you in, instils you in the statement, tells you: This is YOU thinking here. No escape.

I have to admit, even though I’m acutely aware we are talking ginormous peach, I draw the conclusion it’s stunning. I try to categorise it as art. Art is shapely, art is glistening, art sometimes has sand on it. This draws a huge question. Is this the new beauty?

That leaves me perplexed. Have we moved on from the skinny, minny, slender slopes of shapeliness. Not too long ago, our Kylie, as in Aussie-slash-London Kylie - Kylie's petite derriere was held up as the piece de resistance. Plastered into gold-satin hot pants that now have a life of their own as a museum piece. Are our-Kylie and Kim K considered on a par for perfection of shapeliness? Now that the punters are in charge with click-power, where are we heading? Does anything go?

Then I wonder, is it possible to move through this world without being attentively bias towards bodily shape? And, that draws me to my conclusion, it’s not shape that is the obsession, it’s comparison: it’s judgement.

THE UNSLEEPING

Woke up this morning and, before the eyelashes had parted, the brain was haemorrhaging an interminable dribble of self-deprecating internal dialogue. Too fat for a proper breakfast. Too many bumps for proper fashion. Too not right for a proper relationship … OMG too much thinking.

Up until now I was certain the only thing revolving in my brain were the contenders for the prime ministership: I had no idea of the devious underpinnings of body-image shame. I, Jane Garner, the one that reports on what other people think, at best have a plethora of useless imaginings, and at worst have a mind deluded by itself. While it pains me to admit it, Ed’s inference is right, all is not well in the upstairs filing cabinet.

In an effort to plug the flow I sat up, stacked the pillows behind me, lounged back, and reached onto the side-table for The Survival Guide, and its promise to re-program brain matter. Given this week’s mental shenanigans of other-person judgement, and this morning’s self-directed pity party, a re-program is clearly essential. I spend the rest of the day immersed in its offerings.

Chapter 3, page 42. The Rules for Transcendence Beyond Body-Shape Obsession.

Rule No 1: No uglifying self; i.e. no criticism of any body part.

I look down at my motley-skin. Years of sunworshipping in pursuit of the perfect tan. Old thought: How disgusting. New thought: My skin is beautiful, and without it I’d be looser than a jelly-blubber. Grabbing my stomach I massage the slight bulge, marvelling at how breakfast will soon be in there mixing with gastric juices, and then taking on a different form.

Rule No 2: No objectifying self (or others); i.e. in broad terms do not treat self (or others) as an object without regard to personality or dignity. So, no critiquing (good or bad) body parts of self OR others. Hot-legs no longer has hot-legs.    

Rule No 3: No obsessive self-analysing; i.e. just what it says. Allow thoughts to travel through cognitive channels without interference from intellect. The secret here I see is to stop thinking. Note to self: Book-in for electro-convulsive therapy to deaden aberrant brain sections.

Rule No 4: No mirrors; i.e. remove all surfaces that boomerang reflections. That’s easy. I clamber out of bed, size up the mirror, tug at the sides until the blue-tack suction gives way, and then put the offender into solitary confinement between the back of the wardrobe and the wall. The bathroom mirror requires screwdriver intervention, and as I don’t own a screwdriver, I repurpose the blue-tack and position the You Is What You Is poster than came with The Survival Guide; and we’re done.

THE UN-UNLOVING

Skip to Chapter 4, page 76. The Perfect You; After following the rules the first step to break the unconscious obsession with judgement and shape preoccupation is to develop self-love.

Sounds ridiculously narcissistic, however, upon reading the entire chapter, one discovers that when the cup of self-love runneth over, it pours without discrimination into the cups of others. A bit like a bottle of champagne; make sure you’ve got your drink first, but it’s no fun drinking alone. When I think about the scarcity of people knocking down my door wanting a drinking buddy, I wonder, could there be something in this for me after all?

Yeww, self-hug for the self-love. This could be the angle that enables me to escape admitting the menial mental mauranderings previously mentioned. Can’t give Ed reason to be smug.

For women like Miranda self-love consists of finding the perfect dress or the perfect pair of shoes. Yawn, consumerism, so yesterday. For me, climbing the corporate ladder or taking over the world. Dull, capitalism, so 90s. For both of us finding the perfect man. Yeh, sure, romanticism, so last century. According to The Survival Guide, none of that externalising self-worth helps anyone; not in this century or any other. What really matters is gratification from the inside. We’re talking total non-judgement of self, which then flows to others. Yes, acceptism, so now.

Shouldn’t take long to adapt to this. It’s not like I’m trying to reduce from a plus-size to a zero. People do it all the time, don’t they? Look at the celebrities. Has Madonna ever had a doubtful moment, even with that gap between her teeth? Has Angelina Jolie ever wished for thin lips. Oh wait a minute, those lips aren’t flawed, are they? Case in point. Non-judgement, nothing is a flaw.

THE UNRAVELLING

The new morning, and surprisingly I wake without self-deprecating internal dialogue (Rule No. 1, tick). Pleased with quick progression of brain re-programming. Bathroom procedures carried out after breakfast, without self-reflective mirror time (Rule No. 4 still enforced).  

Today, I write the review. Walk to work to enable testing of new brain, and to practise non-judgement.

Hand stretches over eyes whenever I pass a window (Rule No. 4, tick). Nuzzling into my new attitude, I declare I’m looking good. It’s a little tip from The Survival Guide, give yourself constant reminders that all is a-o-k. It appears it’s not just me that thinks so, along the way at least four blokes look at me and flash their teeth. That hasn’t happened for at least half a decade. Us 40-something women pale into oblivion once we arrive at a certain age.

As I head up to the office, hot-legs, oops (Rule No. 2, fail), the recently-divorced sports minister is coming towards me, big smile like I’ve not seen before. “Oh, Jane, hi. Just saw Miranda. Wow, she’s looking great.”

Heart sinks, all I can manage in response is a slow nod and a “yeah.”

“Look, I just dropped in to say the sting is off. He’s backed off, hasn’t got the numbers,” he says.

“Oh. Budgie smuggler staying on the back perch,” I add.

He lets out a rather enthusiastic laugh before saying “I was going to see if you wanted breakfast, but I can see you’re already done. Must rush – good to see you.” With a firm half-wave he’s gone.

I look down at my midline. How does he know I’ve had breakfast?

I slip past reception and Miranda who’s munching on a salad of lettuce leaves on lettuce leaves, accompanied by water infused with a sprig of mint and a slice of lemon. I choose to ignore her. Today is not the day for me to listen to her concerns about whether the shade of her nail-polish makes her midriff seem larger.

“How’s the brain Jane?” asks the boss, sneaking in a sideways smirk.

“All good. No problems there,” I say, flashing the book at him. “All read.”

“Good to hear,” he says. “Not sure I should mention it, but looks like you’ve got half of your breakfast on your face.”

I run to the bathroom. The full-length mirror, courtesy of Miranda’s lobbying, reveals a face smothered with egg, and not only that, a skirt caught-up in my panties at the back. Those people along the boardwalk were not admiring me, no it was pure obloquyism – strong public condemnation. Devastated I curse Rule No. 4. Seriously who could love a look like that.