I hate models. I hate women with long, beautiful, toned legs without a speck of cellulite. I hate runway models who look like they just came from a spa treatment in the Sudan. That's why I applauded the Spanish government's decision to enforce a minimum body mass index rule on the runways. It is certainly way too much government interference, but anything that annoys models and the people who exploit them is fine by me. Of course, the reaction here in the US was of the kind of outrage usually relegated to the mistreatment of cute furry creatures. The head of a modeling agency was saying on CNN that it was discrimination against people who were naturally thin. Puhleeze! That is if by naturally thin you count people whose diet consists exclusively of cocaine, cigarettes and diuretics.
By the way, models who were almost 6 feet tall and 121 pounds were passing the test. My well-stuffed enchilada body is 5'4 and 131 lbs (on a good day). (Why am I telling you this?) I'm a size 6 (sometimes 4, at those stores that have discreetly enlarged their sizes because Americans are now the size of bulldozers). 6 feet at 121 pounds sounds skeletal to me.
Still, if I could narrow myself to 125 lbs I would look thin and glamorous and feel like a supermodel. But those 6 pounds I'd love to lose, 3 measly kilos, I am unable to shed and that is because I steadfastly refuse to deprive myself from the pleasure of eating.
The country is fatter than ever, while the models have not gained one ounce, and may be skinnier than ever. Another fine example of American schizophrenia. Celebrities like ghoulish Nicole Ritchie are disgustingly skeletal and the fashion magazines, which I think I hate even more than porn, only pay lip service to fighting the eating disorders they create.