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" God, I wish I were thin. I wish I were thin, gorgeous and could get any many I want. You probably think I&amp;#039;m crazy. I mean here I am, sitting at work on my own with a massive double-decker club sandwich in front of me, but I&amp;#039;m allowed to dream aren&amp;#039;t I? Half an hour to go of my lunch break. Half an hour in which to drool over my latest edition of my favorite magazine. Don&amp;#039;t get me wrong, I don&amp;#039;t read the features, why would I? Thousands of words about how to keep your man, how to spice up your sex life, how to spot if he&amp;#039;s being unfaithful are, quite frankly, irrelevant to me. I&amp;#039;ll be completely honest with you here, I&amp;#039;ve never had a proper boyfriend, and the cover lines on the magazines are not the reason I buy them. If you must know, I buy them, all of them, for the pictures. I sit and I study each glossy photograph for minutes at a time, drinking in the models&amp;#039; long lithe limbs, their tiny waists, their glowing golden skin. I have a routine: I start with their faces, eyeing each sculpted cheekbone, heart-shaped chin, and I move slowly down their bodies, careful not to miss a muscle. I have a few favorites. In the top drawer of my chest of drawers in my bedroom at home is a stack of cut-out pictures of my top supermodels, preferred poses. Linda&amp;#039;s there for her sex appeal, Christy&amp;#039;s there for her lips and nose and Cindy is there for the body. And before you think I&amp;#039;m some kind of closet lesbian, I&amp;#039;ve already told you the one thing I would wish for if I rubbed a lamp and a gorgeous, bare-chested genie suddenly appeared. If I had one wish in all the world I wouldn&amp;#039;t wish to win the lottery. Nor would I wish for true love. No, if I had one wish I would wish to have a model&amp;#039;s figure, probably Cindy Crawford&amp;#039;s, and I would extend the wish into having and keeping a model&amp;#039;s figure no matter what I eat. Because, tough as it is to admit to a total stranger, I, Jemima Jones, eat a lot. I catch the glances, the glares of disapproval on the occasions I eat out in public, and I try my damnedest to ignore them. Should someone, some &amp;#039;friend&amp;#039; trying to be caring and sharing, question me gently, I tell them I have a thyroid problem, or a gland problem, and occasionally I&amp;#039;ll tack on the fact that I have a super-slow metabolism as well. Just so there&amp;#039;s no doubt, just so people don&amp;#039;t think that the only reason I am the size I am is because of the amount I eat. But you&amp;#039;re not stupid, I know that, and, given that approximately half the women in the country are a size 16 or over, I would ask you to try and understand about my secret binges, my constant cravings, and see that it&amp;#039;s not just about food. You don&amp;#039;t need to know much about my background, suffice to say that my childhood wasn&amp;#039;t happy, that I never felt loved, that I never got over my parents&amp;#039; divorce as a young child, and that now, as an adult, the only time I feel really comforted is when I seek solace in food. So here I am now, at twenty-seven years old, bright, funny, warm, caring and kind. But of course people don&amp;#039;t see that when they look at Jemima Jones. They simply see fat. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.marieclaire.com/culture/a1851/excerpt-from-jemima-j/>