At the awkward age of eleven when my breasts were bumps instead of bodacious, I studied the models in Vogue and Elle magazine the same way a priest studies the scriptures. If there were articles of substance in the magazines, I didn’t read them. I was too obsessed with analyzing the women of perfection.
The flood of messages telling me I needed to be as beautiful, thin and exotic as these women compelled me to go to any length to control my weight. It was painful for me to compare my physique to the bodies of super models. My eyes darted back and forth from the thighs on the models to the thighs on my frame, and I hated myself for the difference. The girls in the magazine didn't have an ounce of fat on their bones. I squeezed my thigh. My thigh resembled one of those turkey legs people devour at a county fair.
I memorized how Brooke Shields appeared in her Calvin Klein jeans. I fantasized what it would feel like to live inside her body. If only I had her hair or her eyes or her lips or her bushy eyebrows. If only I was thin like her. Life must be so easy for her. All the boys must want her. All the girls must want to be her. I will never be that skinny. I will never be that glamorous. I will never be enough.