YAY! I’m writing this rather quickly because I am in the middle of my work day, but it triggered my memory when I was downstairs getting my blood pressure checked- I quit smoking 6 months ago!

How did I celebrate? I’ve decided to join a volunteer center in my community to help where I can locally and via online. Right now I’m going to do work as a resource researcher for MS. I got a little of my life back- I’d like to do something productive with it.

I have been struggling with my weight since my son’s last operation. Not in the “Oh my God I have to have tailored clothes made and new shocks put in my car” kind of weight, but the “Ugh, my clothes are snug and I should probably buy new ones. There goes me entering a Hotty McHottenstuff contest… ever.” <-not that I would, I hate setting myself up for failure anyway, AND if I won I’d accept the award and then hop on the soap box ranting about the degradation of women and objectification. I’m such a contradiction.

Many know that I’ve quit smoking and I’ve heard that it is more difficult to lose weight after the cessation… well it is. Obviously it is. I tried diet/exercise and then collapsing on my sofa in frustration as I’d stuff a German Chocolate Cake in my mouth (not really), but I did feel like giving up. “Maybe I’m just supposed to be this size. Maybe I should just accept and love who I am ‘as is’, you know… work on my self esteem and all that stuff.” Well good news, I don’t have to!

I’ve heard it mentioned that various places over the years that the standard dinner plate has grown 2″ over the past couple of decades. When I write ‘standard’ I am referring to the typical American dinner plate. Apparently in Europe the dinner plate remains 2″ smaller than ours. 2″ may not seem like a lot, but it’s roughly 30-50% more food you’re taking in.

Finally, after pill popping, working out, dieting, starving, put myself into the worst possible things you can do; I boxed up my standard sized dinner plates and began using salad plates for my meals along with using a smaller fork or chopsticks. The result? I’ve finally dipped down into the weight range that is giving me incentive and letting me know ‘It works!’. I had lost 5 lbs since December, but then it stopped. No progress = frustration. Since changing out the plate size (this week) and oddly enough thinking I’m not depriving myself because… well… my plate is full; another 5 lbs have been shed.

I follow the simple rules of:
1. Use a smaller plate.
2. Remember portions- meat the size of a deck of cards is the perfect amt.
3. Try to refrain from eating while watching tv or using the computer- and if you do… opt for vegetables without the dip.
4. Discipline yourself not to consume food after a certain time. Food = energy. Unless you plan on running in a marathon in the middle of the night, there’s no need to eat less than 3 hrs before you head to sleep.
5. Take a breather between bites. Allow your body to digest the food and tell you naturally when you’re hungry and when you’ve had enough.

It may be premature to brag about returning to the pre-op weight, but the portion approach seems to work for me without feeling like I’m suffering or ‘dieting’.

To tie it in to the earlier articles of the week: It’s funny; society in general expects their celeb’s to be deathly thin and extremely tan; and yet for mainstream- food portions are getting bigger and you can’t escape the warnings of sun damage. God complex? Dance little celeb’s dance; let’s see how close to death you’re willing to go for us.

By Mimi Spencer
Sunday August 13 2006
SHE’S far too thin. Everybody says so. In those shrunken hot pants and skinny red vest she looked positively ravenous, like an urchin from Oliver Twist – albeit one with a Prada handbag and hair extensions.
But just how skinny is Victoria Beckham? How would it feel if she sat on your lap? Would she be heavier than a kitten? We do know that she wears jeans with a minuscule 23-inch waist – the size, apparently, of a seven-year-old child.

VB is the leading exponent of a New Look which has come to dominate our lives. Other exemplars include Lindsay Lohan, Mischa Barton, Nicole Richie, Kate Bosworth.

You might not give a tossed salad how much these bony birds weigh. You might even agree with Kate Hudson (who recently won a libel action against the UK National Enquirer magazine for implying she had an eating disorder) that it is none of our business. But it is, because hyper-thin has somehow become today’s celebrity standard and, as a result – almost without us noticing – the goalposts have moved for us all.

With every image of Nicole Richie’s feeble wrists or of Posh Spice’s concave thighs, an inch or maybe an ounce is shaved off the notional ideal female form which governs our relationship with our bodies and with the world.

Images of Lindsay Lohan’s chest bones, desperately reaching out to greet strangers, or Keira Knightley’s xylophone of vertebrae, countable at 30 paces, make you look at your own soft, warm body in a hard new light. It’s almost as if, in the course of a generation, we’ve overturned the age-old feminine ideal – maternal, curvaceous, zaftig.

Looking now at pictures of Linda Evangelista in her supermodel prime, or Elizabeth Hurley in her safety-pin Versace frock, they look – unbelievably – a bit on the heavy side, even though at the time they seemed radiantly slim. To achieve this mental switch, something seismic has happened, enough to make a body mass index of 10 (something in the region of 22 is recommended, medically) look nearly normal to our rewired brains. When you rub your eyes though, and snap yourself out of the reverie, you realise that this isn’t glamorous. It’s cadaverously, dangerously thin.

I have seen this kind of thin before – in the endocrinology department of a hospital where a member of my own family was treated for anorexia throughout her teens. Little could I have known that, in the intervening two decades, the morbidly hungry body type I saw there would become celebrated, a glory to which women of all ages might aspire.

And we do. If we are truthful, it’s not just anorexics who pedestal the thin; we all do, to one extent or another. After all, the mantra of our age is that thin gets you noticed. It gets you a contract as a TV presenter or a model or a singer in a girl band. Thin fast-tracks you with far more alacrity than a degree in history. More than that, as a society, we tend to cast a forgiving eye upon the very thin, while castigating the repugnantly fat.

On my desk, I have a copy of TeenNow magazine, a junior version of the best-selling gossip title. ‘What Celebrities Really Weigh’ is its scream-green cover-line. Victoria Beckham, FYI, weighs 7st 10lb; Lindsay Lohan is 7st 8lb; Hilary Duff weighs in at 7st 7lb, the same as Nadine Coyle from Girls Aloud (“My legs are always going to be skinny,” she says. “There’s nothing I can do about that.” Oh yes there is, Nadine! Try chocolate fudge cake. Works for me every time.)

Nicole Richie, though, is the runt in the bunch, weighing a painful 6st 9lb. “I know I’m too thin,” she is quoted as saying. “I wouldn’t want any young girl looking at me wanting to be like me. I’m not happy with the way I look right now.”

Why then are TeenNow readers getting a technicolour gawp at her? She’s not there, surely, as a warning, but as a temptation. Editor Jeremy Mark seems affronted by the suggestion. “When we do weight covers, we are scrupulously careful not to suggest that skinniness should be an aim for our readers – we always offer professional advice about healthy eating. It’s a touchy subject, particularly among teens, so everything is checked by lawyers and doctors. We certainly have a responsibility to show balance in the images that we choose, which is why we also show Charlotte Church, Joss Stone, Kelly Clarkson, Scarlett Johansson, Beyonce or Colleen – women with a more rounded shape as a reassurance to our readers.”

Come on, Jeremy, I say. You know thin sells. That’s why Heat magazine ran ‘She’s sooo Skinny!’ cover lines for a dozen consecutive weeks and smashed its sales figures in the process. Mark eventually concedes that, “Yes, it’s a common belief that you must be thin to be beautiful . . . there’s so much pressure on celebrities to look that way. It’s all about ad deals, sponsorship, winning contracts. Pepsi aren’t going to book you if you’re a size 16, are they? They’ll book Cheryl Tweedy instead.”

At a clinic for eating disorders in north London, Dr Dee Dawson has noticed a startling jump in the numbers of very young children suffering from anorexia and bulimia. “We see lots of 10-year-olds,” she says with a sigh. “The link with celebrity cannot be overstated. Though anorexics talk of family problems, the pressure of school or not wanting to grow up, we’re now seeing girls who openly say they want to look like Victoria Beckham. Among my patients, she is one of the top icons: as far as they can see, she gets invited everywhere, she’s got plenty of money, a handsome husband. It’s not surprising that they associate her body shape with glamour and success.”

In the darker recesses of the internet, where teenagers increasingly reside, Victoria Beckham has become a macabre pin-up among subscribers to the web’s many pro-ana websites. Here, anorexics exchange tips on how to starve themselves effectively, together with “thinspirational” images of their favourite celebrities. “I envy her thin legs and chest,” writes one Posh fan. “She has beautiful bones sticking out of her chest.” Beautiful bones? Hardly, says Dr Dee Dawson. “With a body like that, she’ll be osteoporotic very early, she’s unlikely to be menstruating, her muscles are being eaten from within – even her heart will have wasted away.”

Yet that weightless, curiously proportioned body is idolised – by all of us, whether we should know better or not. Look at Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Aniston, Keira Knightley, Teri Hatcher, Eva Herzigova, any model on any catwalk anywhere in the world – I’ve got handbags that weigh more.

True perspective can be gained when you consider that the pin-up of the 1890s was Lillian Russell, all 200 pounds of her. We don’t even have to mention Jayne Mansfield, Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren – none of whom would get the job today – to know that something’s up.

Studies have shown that, while 25 years ago the average model weighed eight per cent less than the average American woman, today’s model weighs 23 per cent below the national average. This points up the fascinating paradox that, while we are desperate to keep up with our ever-shrinking celebrities, the average woman is actually getting bulkier. While our icons are running the distinct risk of slipping between the cracks in the pavement, we’re turning into bollards.

As long ago as 2000, the British Medical Association, in its report ‘Eating Disorders, Body Image and the Media’, noted that the extreme thinness of celebrities was “both unachievable and biologically inappropriate”, observing that the gap between the media ideal and the reality appeared to be making eating disorders worse.

To maintain their “biologically inappropriate” body shape, our celebrities – those brave enough to admit it – are permanently hungry. Elizabeth Hurley has confessed as much. Marcia Cross, who plays Bree in Desperate Housewives, recently admitted that staying thin was “a living hell”, and that she felt she had been banned from eating since joining the show. Actresses, models, singers and presenters all are subject to the tyranny of thin, enforced by the minders, moulders and producers who know very well what sells.

For years now, the dreaded “thin issue” has plagued the fashion press, which stands accused of promoting a singular and unachievable body shape with every androgynous little sparrow to grace the glossy pages. Every now and then, we see a flutter of concern – when Omega pulled its ads from Vogue in a 1997 protest, for instance, or when the industry’s prime movers were called to a meeting at Downing St in 2000 to grapple with the issue.

What tends to emerge after the dust has died down is a whole lot of nothing. There are occasional forays into the fat zone – a 1997 Nick Knight shoot in Vogue called ‘Modern Curves’ featured plus-size model Sara Morrison; in the same year The Body Shop ran a series of ads with the tag line: ‘There are three billion women who don’t look like supermodels, and only eight who do.’ Set against the vast portfolio of ‘thimages’ which make up the wallpaper of our lives, these trifling efforts have about as much impact as a bubble on the wind.

Following the Downing St initiative, Premier, a top model agency, argued convincingly that women who bought fashion magazines were as much to blame as the editors and advertisers. “It is a supply-and-demand thing – advertisers, magazines and agencies supply the image that consumers want to see. Statistics show that if you stick a beautiful skinny girl on the cover of a magazine you sell more copies.”

Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman might well agree, though she’s too polite to say so. Until lately, she has rather shirked the issue by saying: “All we are doing is showing images of women we regard as interesting or beautiful or fashionable. But we are not actually saying you have to be like this.” Last year, though, Shulman was more candid: “I really wish that models were a bit bigger, because then I wouldn’t have to deal with this the whole time,” she said in one newspaper interview. “There is pressure on them to stay thin, and I’m always talking to the designers about it, asking why they can’t just be a bit closer to a real woman’s physique in terms of their ideal. But they’re not going to do it – clothes look better to all of our eyes on people who are thinner.”

Boom. The bottom line. Clothes look better on a slim frame.

And don’t we all want to look good in clothes? In my experience, there’s a constant jockeying for position on the weight front among women, a competitive, low-grade bitchery (rarely expressed, but often captured on the cover of Heat or Now) which reveres the dropping of a dress size and stigmatises the gaining of a kilo.

Of course, if you’re bright and grown-up and plugged into the issues of the day, you tend not to let on that you’re fascinated by other women’s bottoms. But you are. We are. We look. We compare.

In our image-saturated, overweight universe, we’re hypercritical of our peers and our paragons. It’s nothing to do with men (heaven knows, few men actually fancy the perilously thin females glorified by women, most would swap five Posh Spices for a Jennifer Lopez any day), and everything to do with competition between females.

“Women are duplicitous on this issue,” says Leeds Medical School psychologist Dr Andrew Hill. “Much of the pressure about appearance and weight is applied by other women. In the face of nutritional abundance, women are showing their status by eating poorly – much as a corpulent belly historically indicated status in times of privation. It’s perverse, but a reverse snobbery now informs our relationship with weight, being thin in an overeating society is a sign of control. It takes enormous will to stay so thin.”

For all but the very disciplined – or very disturbed – the kind of hyper-thin portrayed by the stars is an impossible goal, which is why so many Western women are in a constant state of food anxiety. Four in 10 of us are on a permanent diet. Ninety-eight per cent of us hate our bodies. We nurse our own little rituals, weight-management tics that were once the preserve of the Hurleys and Paltrows of this world, carefully tailored to suit our needs.

We know how much bread we ate for lunch and whether we can, therefore, have half a potato for supper. We’re under a siege of our own making.

We persist, says Dr Hill, because weight has come to signify all that is desirable, because “judgment of character is increasingly based on superficial appearance. We objectify celebrities, inferring all sorts of things from their physical appearance. Image colours everything, simply because, in a world overloaded with information, we cling to what is most obvious: and that’s how things look.”

The recent influx of what Dr Hill calls “talentless self-seeking bimbettes” into the fame game has only concentrated attention more fully on looks alone – that’s all that remains now that talent appears to have been excised from the equation. In Victoria Beckham’s case, her ‘thimage’ has become a life raft for a sinking career.

As one of her friends pointed out recently: “Her figure is her career, and with the spotlight constantly on her, she says she has to watch her weight very carefully. She doesn’t care if some people think she’s gone too far.”

If anything, she has come out fighting. “I haven’t got an eating disorder,” she snapped the other day, “I’m just disciplined about what I eat.” But my, what discipline!

Really, it’s hard not to be impressed. Most of us would buckle after 10 minutes on her punishing regime. She chews for ages. She quizzes waiters to have them remove butter, oil and salad dressings from her plate. She doesn’t eat portions that can’t fit into the palm of her hand, “as that’s the same size as her stomach”. She only eats fruit till 3pm and then limits her intake to 500 calories for the rest of the day.

It’s possible – as Dr Dee Dawson points out – that Posh doesn’t have an eating disorder in the medical sense. Anorexia and bulimia are, after all, psychiatric conditions characterised by a host of pathological behaviours and beliefs way beyond the normal range. While she displays plenty of these, she also has enough control and awareness to calibrate her food intake when she wants a child and then rein her appetite back in when she wants to dump the baby fat. According to the friend: “Victoria knows that she’ll have to start eating carbs if she has any hope of conceiving [a fourth baby].”

Could you ask for a more revealing take on modern life?

While Victoria admits she has “come close” to an eating disorder, other celebrities are more candid. Here’s just a handful who have recently disclosed their own anorexia or bulimia (though they usually distance themselves from its grim reality by using the past tense): Mary Kate Olsen, Christina Ricci, Portia de Rossi, Calista Flockhart, Karen Elson, Tracy Shaw, Kate Beckinsale, Geri Halliwell, Melanie Chisholm . . . Not that it stops us wanting to look like them, we just choose to concentrate on their lovely slim arms and nutty buttocks rather than the fact that they have possibly just chucked up their lunch. Funny how a brain can curtain off unpalatable truths and feed happily on the garnish.

But perhaps we should look harder – train ourselves to see the perma-hunger of the hyper-thin. Strip away the gloss, starve their lovely bones of the oxygen of publicity. In the final analysis, doesn’t the responsibility lie not with them, but with us?

© Guardian Newspapers Ltd

- Mimi Spencer

“Because of the current topic at hand… I was doing a search and came across the following from 2006. It hit upon a lot of things I was trying to convey- and felt it to be worth a read. -Dawn”

My brain is preoccupied because of an idea I’ve been running with that started on the 27th after someone suggested I write a children’s book (GR! The nerve!!). :-\ You know who you are!

I am extremely excited and I will give out NO additional information at this time until I am well on my way to making it a project that I cannot turn back on. I’m now fine tuning my schedule and environment to make it a ‘creative’ friendly area regardless of what’s on my plate. I will not neglect ANYTHING or ANYONE! OMGGGGGGGGG can someone tell me why that cat keeps meowing?!?!?!?!

…hmmm I suppose I should remember to feed the cats.

“What ever happened to the stray?” For those who recall the stray cat I was in a moral dilemma about where I felt sorry for the flea bag but I didn’t want an additional cat to take care of, here’s the update: I stopped feeing it and giving it water. Apparently someone else has been doing that… and it just enjoys 

hanging out on MY porch when it’s not eating. My porch is for sleeping.

It will just sit there while I put things in the trash (no, it doesn’t get into the garbage). When I take Jonathon to the bus in the morning it follows me… and goes back to the porch when I get in my car to leave.

I ignore it, I even tell it that I’m ignoring it… but it doesn’t matter. The cat obviously is up to something and I can bet it’s not good!!!

Anyway, as for my weekend. I’m proud of my strides for the beginning of what will be (hopefully) a very long and successful story. AND I thank Jonathon for keeping me on track with my cleaning. I hopped on the computer for a second to write someone a quick note and he cleared his throat and nodded his head towards the clothing I needed to fold. The mountain of clothing. The largest mountain in Northern America. That mountain is now gone- although it’s imprint on the map the satellite took shall live on.

The map should hit shelves possibly in late spring. You’ll know it’s the incorrect one when it claims the highest point in North America is not in Alaska, but it’s really in Salem, Oregon.

(the picture shown is not my mountain of clothes- it’s someone elses ‘hill’ that I found online.)

Current Mood: Geeky