Oh, But My Celebrity Self Would Have It Together

When I awake, my eyelids will pop open; the sunlight will drift hazily through the linin curtains, allowing small particles to stream in diagonal lines like strobe lighting. I will not smack the snooze button, but fling myself out of bed, only to be met with a reflection in a full-length mirror, adorned with light-bulbs, as if backstage. Usually, this would make me cringe, squirm, stare at a bulbous body with thighs the expanse of America. (Probably exacerbated by the tattered pyjamas clinging to my body: the cuffs of the sleeves uneven; the shorts riding up to peek my bottom.) But, fear not! For now I am a celebrity, I will strut towards that mirror: slender legs that stretch the length of Italy, toned arms and a stomach as flat as a newly plastered wall. I may even blow myself a kiss.

Because I may have had a cheeky, decadent treat the night before – one heart-shaped cacao chocolate hand-made in Sicily – I will decide today that I will go on a spontaneous run around my private block: not because I am vain or guilty, but because it will gift the day with a bit of zen. (Unlike my non-celebrity self, who sat on the sagging sofa last night, scooping up a slice of cake I defrosted from the freezer, doused in cream, and then proceeded to hoover up the majority of a Dairy Milk tray.) But, before that, I swan into my kitchen and pull out a bowl of 100% Pure Vanilla Greek Yoghurt with chia seeds, blueberries and a sprinkling of granola.

Fulfilling my celebrity status, I may pop to the salon, where I do not even have to book a slot, for just a few hair highlights – or, even more scandalous, get it cut – or go to a café and become paparazzi prey. I could always go shopping: not your typical shopping centre with Primark (‘Primarni’ to convince yourself your purchases are justifiable), Topshop and JD Sport. I am talking a little Burberry splurge, a few Chanel must-haves, or explore Victoria Secret – no need to rely on the sales either! Unlike the usual triumph of a casual t-shirt and hairbands, I will emerge – still hair swishing, as if no knot would ever dare to touch such a sacred head – with no less than a new wardrobe draped around my wrists, with a minimum of a few thousand pounds on high heels.

My gorgeous actor-model husband may whisk me off to dinner that night; as I make my exit from the taxi for dinner, I will cover my delicate eyes from the dazzling flash of the cameras from those poor – but infuriating – onlookers, who just need to churn a little extra cash to tide them over. We will sip rosé (and my lipstick will not transfer onto the flutes, not even budge, because I will spend much more than high street prices on perfecting the pout) while cutting into steak tartar and a mixed leaf salad. Unless I become a gluten-free, dairy-free, grass-fed, low-carb idol, but then I am sure the restaurant will know exactly what I will be ordering every time.

And then, when back in our modest mansion, I will slip into a chic silk nightgown – sourced from the Himalayan Mountains, as an impromptu gift from my delicious husband – and laugh and fall sound asleep, ready for my next busy day of photo-shoots and perfume testing for my own range. Perfect.

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Except, I doubt our vision of celebrity is entirely true. Many will have what could be judged as an ‘easier’ life sure: less financial troubles; more opportunities for those we would label as ‘once in a lifetime’. Their bodies may be more sculpted because they actually have time to indulge in private yoga classes with their celebrity best friends, as well as free, promotional spray-tans every month. They may even be famous for just being famous, not even working their way up. However, thrusting yourself – or being shoved into – the conscious mind of the public may not always be the fluffy clouds and delicate dreams we may believe: the constant criticism, probably labelled as ‘critiquing’, may harm your mentally permanently, penetrating every thought, so when you do hoist yourself in front of a mirror, your mind merely slips towards your ‘bad bits’. Everytime you scuttle under the sky, your movements are stalked. Your life, your partner, your children, can be snatched up just in time for the media to print the full story. Just look at Johnny Depp, now a little twisted with age and stardom, or even Shia LeBoeuf, reportedly gone drunk-mad with the stuff.

But, I still believe that my celebrity self would have it together just a little bit more than my current version: I mean, I would not say no to more money in my bank account.