How do you encapsulate the spirit of a person whose career in entertainment spans stupid gags and poo jokes on Instagram, a deep desire for Shane Warne, red-carpet reporting and award-winning podcasting? She’s an opinion columnist – yes, it is weird to steal baby names from your mates – influencer, newsletter author and now, book author. Lucinda Price, aka Froomes, is the charming, ridiculous, multifaceted entertainer who manages to do all of the above while remaining relatable.

Price coined the term Froomesworld for those spinning in her absurdist orbit. But in any world, you want to be her friend. “I wanted an acting agent when I was like 11,” Price tells Broadsheet. “I went to this one in Melbourne, and you had to pay, which is like, the biggest red flag – like, you don’t pay for an agent! Tragic! From a very young age, I really pushed for it [and felt] like, is it ever gonna happen? But it wasn’t a thing of me doubting myself, it was more this inextricable problem of: how do I get to be the person [who] does it?”

“It” means to live and work in the limelight, and eight years after she first logged on to Instagram, she’s done “it”. In her debut book All I Ever Wanted Was To Be Hot – which she calls an “honest, irreverent manifesto” – Price bares her experience with anorexia, cosmetic surgery and how growing up in the ’90s shaped her world view. Then, across nine research-led chapters, she dives in further to grapple with society’s beauty ideals.

Price’s descriptions of battling an eating disorder – which she first shared in a newsletter post titled “We Need to Talk About Tuna” – are a massive departure from her big-CEO energy. But, she writes, after “showing a little sliver of my underbelly online, it felt like a weight had been lifted”. Her recovery and resulting book have proved to be a path for connection, brain space, “feeling normal” and more jokes.

Lucinda, how are you feeling about All I Ever Wanted Was To Be Hot coming out? I’m just so excited now. The Booktopia thing was a spanner, but people have been pretty good about it. I’d never written anything more than 3000 words in my whole life, and some of the chapters are 7000. The daunting part of it is asking people for their experience, especially the chapters about fatphobia. You have to get over trying to be sensitive – if they’re agreeing to tell you their story, there’s common ground.

The style of your work makes people feel like they know you – do you think they do? There’s definitely that feeling. I think I’m as myself as anyone would be in a work setting. But it doesn’t actually feel like work at the moment. At all. You get depressed when you have an eating disorder, so I had all the same opportunities and freedom [as I do now], but I didn’t enjoy it because I just wanted to sleep. Now that I’m full of life again, I can really enjoy it. I’m grateful. Like, how good is it to be interviewed? Iconic.

When I was reading All I Ever Wanted, I found it interesting that your pursuit of “perfection” was just to get a foot in the door of the industry, specifically so you could make everyone laugh. But that pursuit got you to a point where you didn’t have the energy for anything – so you lost what you were striving for. It was very circular. You’ve hit the nail on the head. Like, that’s exactly how it felt. It was like, “Oh, fuck. Now I’ve got all these things, and I’m on this real trajectory that feels really positive. I was like, “I’m going to be the most famous person in the world”. Like, I was legit delusional. It all became so unfun.

Was there a moment where it was like, “Actually, this can’t go on”? There are definitely instances that are clear, looking back. Friends would come up from Melbourne, and they would not talk to me afterwards. I’d be like, “Where have you gone?” and they’re like, “I just don’t recognise who you are. I had a really terrible time, and you made me feel like such an inconvenience.” It’s what you can do when you’re living with anorexia, because you don’t have any bandwidth for anyone but yourself – in my experience. So little things like that made me think, “Oh, maybe what I’m doing is a bit weird.”

When I started getting help, and realised I can’t go on like this, was when I started binge eating. That was the impetus to try and get better, because it’s so physically draining to binge eat. And it’s so ego-dystonic – it goes against all your values. [Coming] out of an eating disorder where you look a certain way – when you are really thin – and then you lose that, I found that really hard. But that was the impetus to look back at all the other things I did when I was a teenager. So ultimately it helped me rethink my priorities, and then from that, a lot of positive things started happening.

The other good thing about that is, when you get really low, you’re like, “I’ll never go back to that”.

What’s it like having fans? It’s literally the best, I’m fucking obsessed with it. I love whenever people come up to me, I feel so good about myself. I’m at a point in my career where I’m not doing things because I have to. People don’t appreciate this enough, when you see someone on TV that you don’t like, or you think they’re doing something lame: the bigger you get, the less control you have over the opportunities that come. I’m at a really fun point where I still have full control, because I’m still on the niche side. So when people come up to me, it feels like it’s for the right reasons.

You were the unofficial face of Pedestrian for a while there. How was it finding your own style and ambition at a publication with a distinct brand and tone? I was a massive reader of Pedestrian. I always wanted to do some kind of journalism, so it felt perfect – something that’s really funny and irreverent, but also a job. At the time when they were popping off, it was very unusual to have a website where you were getting news and jokes. I was allowed to bring my tone, but I also acknowledged their tone. I really respected it, so it was easy. I learned how to pump out a story and make sure I’m hitting all the [beats], and also [make] it entertaining. It was a perfect marriage: really fun, really hard.

And then that redundancy. It shook my bones when I was made redundant, like shook to my fucking bones laughs. Three months into Covid? Like, you savages. That was my first hint of betrayal and being like, actually, no one’s looking out for you but you, sis. It’s a business? I thought we were all having fun, I thought we were a family! But it was good because it made me really appreciate an audience that you build. Very shortly after that I got my first brand deal.

The CEO thing was just so fun because there’s so many elements of the character to play with: finance-y and bumbling. I loved it. I still call myself CEO in some bios, but it was so long ago that new people are just like, “What is this?” Do you actually have a business?” I technically do – like, it is a PTY LTD, but I’m not a CEO.

Your book links to the iconic “Disgoostang” video. Why do you think that piece of cinema – because that’s what it is – is so timeless? Babe, when I suggested to the publisher [that we put that in] I thought there’s no way they will say yes. And they’re just like, “Oh yeah”. [That video’s] always captured my imagination. I love when people unintentionally do something embarrassing, because I feel like I do that a lot. I always love stories about people trying to sing and getting interrupted, or if you’re dancing at home and someone catches you. I’ve always found that shit so funny – and also really lovely. And we all can relate to someone going crazy at home, like we’re such feral animals. I mean, in my house, we were feral animals. I love seeing the mum lose her shit. Disgoostang! That is going to flash in our eyes before we die.

I’d happily have that be the note I go out on. Which of your performances are you most proud of? It’s this video I did, one of my first posts, and it’s me riding on this little tiny tyke bike to Mad World. It’s slowed down, and it’s real tragic. I love that idea of the tragic clown, I love sad music against funny things. I like things that are really absurd, but also when something’s just so funny and you can’t even put your finger on why – Disgoostang is the best example. Like, I don't know why that’s so universally funny, there are so many elements of it that are just not trying.

My fave’s when you rush to put Shrek make-up on when he “Facetime you outta the blue”. Period. I mean, I’m sorry, but it’s relatable, is it not? He’s calling! And you’re going to fuck! Yeah, shit like that, when I’m delirious. It’s like when you’re hungover and you’re delirious – it’s the funniest thing ever, yeah? I’m always trying to capture that sentiment – “laughing in maths class” is what I call it: I don’t know why it’s funny but I can’t stop.

You go into your cosmetic surgeries and both the ethics of prescribing Ozempic and the pressures to take it. And we’re in an era where we’re supposedly celebrating who we “really” are, while also owning the procedures we’ve had. Do you think we can have both? I’m seeing this trend – even when you see Charlie XCX Brat, they’re all smoking ciggies. It’s like the “it girl” is heroin chic again, messy – it’s indie sleaze. We’ve done this overcorrection from the real health-nut “clean eating” time of the early 2010s to 2020, where most people feel like the very-thin ideal is still the ideal. I think it’s funny how we didn’t really quite get there with [body neutrality], and now it’s reverted back. I think the indie sleaze, dirty-girl make-up, party girl thing is really taking off as a consequence – it’s a revolt! The ciggies I don’t fuck with, but I see the vision and I think it’s also a post-Covid, life-is-short style expression.

With the plastic surgery stuff, it’s been an interesting sensation seeing it spoken about. Because I did it when I was a teenager, back then it was unusual. I didn’t have any friends that were getting the nose job, getting the boob job, getting filler. Like, I did all that stuff. And I was probably the one out of all of our friends that felt like she was faking it the most. Now, it’s become like a status symbol to get things done, and I don’t think it’s necessarily a good thing … to be normalised. I have massive regrets about my implants. But then again, you know, it’s really easy for me to look at this glamorisation of plastic surgery and be like, “Oh, that's sickening”. Like, babe, you got it, so you’re not really allowed to judge.

The thing that kills me about Ozempic is the idea of people making heaps of money off it becoming normalised. I’m very pharmaceutical-heavy … but there’s just something about Ozempic that we’re not yet able to extract the messages of how thinness is godly. At the same time, I think why I’m passionate about it being talked about is because I know that when I lived with anorexia, I would have definitely found a way to get Ozempic.

Is your cockroach housemate still alive? Oh yeah. I found him in my shower. I was obviously going through something with that laughs. He’s still kicking, he's still around.

And finally, do you still want to be hot? Yeah, sadly. But I think my idea of what’s hot has really expanded. When I was a young girl it was very homogenous. What I wanted to be was what a 13-year-old boy thinks a hot woman is. Whereas now, it’s definitely expanded. I think that’s helped with representation of different bodies, it goes a long way. Representation matters.

I find that the malignant form of wanting to be hot comes up when I feel like I’m not good enough. Like when I’m dating, that’s when it comes up. Or when I get rejected for a job, that’s when it comes up. Or if I’ve got a big event on. But for the most part, I think it’s gone. I still get Botox and stuff – full disclosure – but it doesn’t take up as much brain space. It’s not something that keeps me up at night, so I’m happy with it. I feel like a normal person now.

All I Ever Wanted Was To Be Hot: Self Image, Beauty Ideals and Desirability, Pantera Press, $34.99, is released on September 3.

If you or someone you know is experiencing depression or anxiety, call Lifeline Australia on 13 11 14 or visit lifeline.org.au.