I am standing alone in a sparsely furnished living room when a man I’ve never seen before walks in. He takes several strides in my direction, his footsteps ringing out on the bare floor, and looks me up and down. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks in a British accent. “Have you seen yourself?”

Stunned, I glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror to my left. Staring back at me is a woman I don’t recognize. She wears tight black pants and an unflattering tan T-shirt that clings to the flesh around her stomach. Her hair, shorter and darker than mine, is tucked behind her ears, and her face is pale and drawn. She looks slightly cartoonish, like something out of a videogame.

I turn back to the man.

“You look 20 years older than you actually are,” he says. “There is not one woman out there who looks as wretched as you do right now.”

I start to speak, but he cuts me off.