I love me a good makeover.

But not so much an aesthetic one, although mu ratty split ends suggest I’m overdue for a haircut. Nope, I like myself a good life makeover – sort of like Clueless. An overhaul of my pathetic existence to fashion myself into some kind of decent, upstanding citizen instead of the anxious self-obsessed frump stain I can sometimes turn into.

And rather than do this on my own, I’d like to have a team of experts around me to sculpt my life. Conversation on the weekend turned to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy – which one we were most like and what expert we’d need the most help from. But I don’t think I’d necessarily need the services of the experts assembled on the show as much as I’d need sassy, positive people with… different areas of expertise. I mean, I like my décor, my outfits could be more flattering but I like the colours and the other night I made a pumpkin and pine nut chicken salad for work the next day. I’m feeling ok in these areas – not great, obviously, but passable.

Here’s what I would need on my life makeover dream team:

A finance whiz: I would need a finance coach telling me what to do with my money. I want to be someone who uses phrases like “stock portfolio” and “interest rates” in contexts beyond me pretending to be a busy office worker with manila folders as props. I want to be able to think of other financial phrases than just “stock portfolio” and “interest rates” when I’m trying to talk about money (it actually took me the longest time to come up with those two phrases – I’m someone who generally worships at the altar of trios, but I couldn’t think up a third phrase so I just cut my loses and continued on). I mean, I’ve read Barefoot Investor and I’m listening to She’s On The Money, but I think I want something more personal. Someone who the smarts who also unpacks my deep-seated issues. What I’d really like is a financial advisor psychologist hybrid to be in my corner, cheering me on and guiding me to the point where I’m buying a yacht without needing a loan – even though I get very, very, seasick.

A digestive system crew: I know there’s the food guy who scopes out the contestant’s pantry and fridge on the show but I would want something much, much more invasive than that. I want these people to be analysing my poo for all kinds of information about my body and my diet. I want to know what’s happening with my little farm of gut bacteria. Then I’d like someone to tailor an eating plan for me, so I know the precise combination of foods to put into my body if I want to have a tight rig. I’m not really one who would want my DNA analysed because I don’t want The System to know what’s in my genes. I think a psychic reading would really mess with my head (there would be this whole tortuous back and forth about me believing them or not and that would eventually lead me down a dark spiral about whether or not everything is predetermined and see me thinking about thing I prefer to ignore by starting at cake decoration videos). I don’t want my tealeaves or my palm read, but by all means, read my poo.

A water-consumption convenor: I don’t drink nearly enough of the clear stuff. I mean, I drink plenty of tea and, even though I haven’t seen a study that clinically proves it to be so, it’s a known diuretic. Which means that the only liquid I’m ingesting is going straight through me without nourishing my parched body. So, it’s fair to say that I’m pretty dehydrated. I had to have a blood test the other day and even though I had a bottle of water right before, the last-minute effort did nothing to loosen up my thick, jammy blood. Two separate nurses had to dig around in my elbow veins and eventually had to get creative and took blood from my hand, after much squeezing. I could really do with someone fabulous making sure I drink enough water.

A Year 7 teacher: I have completely forgotten all the basic, useful things in life. The things I used to be insufferably smug about being good at in primary school. I want there to be someone who is stern and parental who will force me to learn new words and correct spelling each week, testing me on my comprehension every Friday. Of course, I would also want to make sure this teacher followed the strict Christmas crafts code for the end of the year, because that’s important for brain development.

Someone who would slap me each time I get lost in my own fiddling: I’ve seen enough of Fiddler on the Roofto know that it’s not about someone fidgeting uncontrollably while sitting on top of a house. But if you forget the storyline, musical score and, heck, everything about the production, that title describes me perfectly (I don’t get up on the roof as much as I used to, but I do enjoy the height and serenity a roof sit provides). I’ve got a habit of fiddling. Fidgeting. Tapping. Clicking. Most of the time, I’m smoothing my hair, which feels good to the fingers and lips when it’s freshly washed. I didn’t even realise I did it for a long time, until I saw a high school friend after years apart who made comment about my fidgeting. I thought it was just some kind of endearing quirk. People would occasionally ask me if I was worried or stressed when I’d do it, because the habit is typically portrayed as being a visible sign that someone is not at all calm in movies. But I just thought it was something I did absentmindedly, getting lost in the smoothness of my hair. Since seeing a psychologist who was like – and I’m a paraphrasing a little bit here – “geez mate, you’re fucking anxious aye” – it makes me think that perhaps my fiddling is perhaps, just a scoach bit, linked to my mental state. The trouble is that I can lose a lot of time to this hair smoothing, where I zone out and stare, losing all focus and enjoying a nice quiet break from reality. I need to snap out of it quickly or I can really derail my day. That’s when I need someone with a bit of a tender sass to slap my hand away from my hair.