Is the voice in my head bothering you yet?

I have come to the realisation that I have lost two very important components to my integral being by becoming a parent. The first is time. The second, a decent portion of my sanity (including short term memory), and the third, my waist-line. I think that the second factor has delayed my realisation of the third factor for a long time, which, thanks to the first factor, I didn't have anyway.
While taking in an episode of Dr Phil (over a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich), I was brought to a point of enlightenment like never before. The good doctor was berating some tear-stained 17 year-old for having a condition known as BDD - Body Dysmorphic Disorder - it's where this fairly attractive pubescent girl looks in the mirror and sees "an ugly, overweight cow" (Dr Phil's words, I swear).
Later, upstairs, I stood in front of the mirror and tried to out-stare my reflection. My reflection blinked first. I took a couple of steps back and had a good look at what I saw. I turned left and checked my profile. I turned right. I faced away from the mirror and craned my neck like an owl, trying to see what I look like from behind. I turned back again and smoothed my creased shirt down over my twice-gravid belly.
The penny dropped. Time stood still. My reflection blinked. Again.
I suffer from Body Dysmorphic Disorder.
The truth was, and is, that my hormone bedevilled skin, my dried out split-ends, my extra weight evenly distributed between boobs, belly and bum, my vagrant eyebrows, my years of poor personal attention leading to chipped nails and hobbit hair on my feet, well all of that stuff, I kind of didn't see. As I stood in front of that mirror, all I saw was absolutely fabulous!
So there you have it, I know what the truth is, but, due to my lack of time and increasing insanity, I just haven't really being seeing it at all.
When I get up to go in the mornings, if my shoes match, it's a good day. I apply my make-up in a poorly lit bathroom and leave home thinking that I'm good-to-go. If I happen to catch a reflection of myself in a car window or mud puddle during the day, still I'm happy with the way things are. The real problem comes into play if I happen to find myself in a change-room at Woolies or, worse still, before the mirror in the baathroom at the pre-school at Delivering or Collecting time. For some reason the mirrors in these places seem to pierce through my apparant view of the way I see me, and reveal an apparition that blinks at me through the glass. Her hair is standing up, she has tomato sauce dried on her chin, next to a whopper zit, her eyeshadow has rubbed off, but a smear of mascara is staining her cheek, primary wrinkles are appearing around her neck, her bra is far from supportive (Parents Against Early Ageing would do a better job), clothing creased, but her shoes match. Hmm! That's me!
I turn away, take my sunglasses off the top of my head and breath over a lens. Wiping the mist off on my sleeve, I tilt the shades so that I can just catch a glimpse of my face reflected in the lens. My reflection winks at me. Looking good, Baby!
Now wouldn't I just completely blow all of Dr Phil's boats out of the water?