Camera Shy

This middle age thing BLOWS.

Last week, I traveled to the East Coast for meetings. There were a few late nights, some cocktails and perfectly greasy fish and chips at an Irish pub in Manhattan. All of this was fabulous except for the fact that Thursday and Friday were spent shooting FILM for our corporate website. And I looked every one of my forty two years.

It's odd that I can look in the mirror every day and walk out of my house with a measure of confidence because when I reviewed the footage and the still shots from Thursday's session, I wanted to vomit.

First of all, my make up made me feel like I had on a Mardi Gras mask. I'm not a big cosmetics girl. I've been blessed with good skin and frankly, I don't give a fig about the difference between foundation and powder. I've always found the application of make up intimidating so I've avoided it. I stick to the basics of liner and mascara and sometimes, I even manage to dab on a bit of lip gloss. That's it.

At the shoot, we were put into the hands of a very capable make up artist whose full time job is to beautify runway models for a well known house of couture. She prepared our faces for the glare of the lights and there were no mirrors, which turned out to be a good thing because when I finally excused myself and went to the ladies' room, I just about had a coronary.

In the mirror was Tammy Faye Baker.

I'm not kidding.

As I looked a bit closer, I was horrified to find that the light shadow on my eyelids had collected into newly obvious FOLDS in the skin above my eyes. Where did those come from? My crow's feet were literally jumping off my face and the marionette lines that join my nose with my mouth made me look like an exaggerated, perverse version of Pinocchio. I kicked myself for not taking advantage of that Botox special last month. The worst part of the whole experience was the realization that I have morphed into the slightly feminized version of my father. Even a plastic surgeon couldn't touch the power of his DNA.

It's a freaking horror show.

To make matters worse, I had the opportunity to review some of the raw video footage. Do I really look like that when I talk? Really? Do I always hold my mouth like I'm sucking on something sour? And that chin. It's like a giant pointy arrow at the bottom of my face. Me and Jay Leno. Lovely.

And my hair. Oh dear God. When I glanced into the mirror that morning before leaving, I thought I had achieved a gentle curl. On film, my hair looked like I had just rolled out of the back seat of a Mustang after shagging myself blind and attempted to comb it with a tree branch.

I turned to our cinematographer and told her that she would have to cut me from the planned video vignettes. She reassured me with promises of "colour balancing", "editing" and a generous airbrush.

"I thought the camera was supposed to add ten pounds, not fifty!" I screeched. She just smiled, handed me a paper bag and told me to breathe deeply.

The camera is cruel. Liquid make up and finishing powders are instruments of the devil. Sparkly eyeshadow, clearly, was invented by someone with a sick sense of humour. Liposuction, Botox® and Restylane® should be offered right along with mammograms once a gal turns forty.

Today, I am back on a bloody diet. I have made an appointment with a dermatologist. We are buying a treadmill.

And for goodness sakes, keep that bloody video camera away from me.