“Andrea；”　called　her　friend；　a　girl　I　didn’t　know　very　well　who
  worked　in　accessories；　“please　tell　Hope　she’s　not　fat。”
  “You’re　not　fat；”　I　said；　my　mouth　on　autopilot。　It　would’ve　saved
  me　many；　many　hours　to　have　a　shirt　printed　up　that　said　as　much；　or
  perhaps　to　just　have　the　phrase　tattooed　directly　on　my　forehead。　I
  was　constantly　called　on　to　assure　variousRunway　employees　that　they
  weren’t　fat。
  “Ohmigod；　have　you　seen　my　gut　lately？　I’m　like　the　fucking
  Firestone　store；　spare　tires　everywhere。　I’m　huge！”　Fat　was　on
  everyone’s　minds；　if　not　actually　their　bodies。　Emily　swore　that　her
  thighs　had　a　“wider　circumference　than　a　giant　sequoia。”　Jessica
  believed　that　her　“jiggly　upper　arms”　looked　like　Roseanne　Barr’s。
  Even　James　plained　that　his　ass　had　looked　so　big　that　morning
  when　he　got　out　of　the　shower　that　he’d　“contemplated　calling　in　fat
  to　work。”
  In　the　beginning　I’d　responded　to　the　myriad　am…I…fat　questions　with
  what　I　thought　to　be　an　exceedingly　rational　reply。　“If　you’re　fat；
  Hope；　what　does　that　make　me？　I’m　two　inches　shorter　than　you　and　I
  weigh　more。”
  “Oh；　Andy；　be　serious。I　am　fat。You’re　thin　and　gorgeous！”
  Naturally　I　thought　she　was　lying；　but　I　soon　came　to　realize　that
  Hope—along　with　every　other　anorexically　skinny　girl　in　the　office；
  and　most　of　the　guys—was　able　to　accurately　evaluate　other　people’s
  weight。　It　was　just　when　it　came　time　to　look　in　the　mirror　that
  everyone　genuinely　saw　a　wildebeest　staring　back。
  Of　course；　as　much　as　I　tried　to　keep　it　at　bay；　to　remind　myself
  over　and　over　that　I　was　normal　and　they　weren’t；　the　constant　fat
  ments　had　made　an　impression。　It’d　only　been　four　months　I’d　been
  working；　but　my　mind　was　now　skewed　enough—not　to　mention
  paranoid—that　I　sometimes　thought　these　ments　were　directed
  intentionally　to　me。　As　in：　I；　the　tall；　gorgeous；　svelte　fashion
  assistant；　am　pretending　to　think　I’m　fat　just　so　you；　the　lumpy；
  stumpy　personal　assistant　will　realize　that　you　are　indeed　the　fat
  one。　At　five…ten　and　115　pounds　（the　same　weight　as　when　my　body　was
  racked　with　parasites）；　I’d　always　considered　myself　on　the　thinner
  side　of　girls　my　age。　I’d　also　spent　my　life　until　then　feeling
  taller　than　ninety　percent　of　the　women　I　met；　and　at　least　half　the
  guys。　Not　until　starting　work　at　this　delusional　place　did　I　know
  what　it　was　like　to　feel　short　and　fat；　all　day；　every　day。　I　was
  easily　the　troll　of　the　group；　the　squattest　and　the　widest；　and　I
  wore　a　size　six。　And　just　in　case　I　failed　to　consider　this　for　a
  moment；　the　daily　chitchat　and　gossip　could　surely　remind　me。
  “Dr。　Eisenberg　said　that　the　Zone　only　works　if　you　swear　off　fruit；
  too；　you　know；”　Jessica　added；　joining　the　conversation　by　plucking
  a　skirt　from　the　Narcisco　Rodriguez　rack。　Newly　engaged　to　one　of
  the　youngest　vice　presidents　at　Goldman　Sachs；　Jessica　was　feeling
  the　pressures　of　her　uping　society　wedding。　“And　she’s　right。
  I’ve　lost　at　least　another　ten　pounds　since　my　last　fitting。”　I
  forgave　her　for　starving　herself　when　she　barely　had　enough　body　fat
  to　function　normally；　but　I　just　couldn’t　forgive　her　fortalking
  about　it。　I　could　not；　no　matter　how　impressive　the　doctors’　names
  were　or　how　many　success　stories　she　prattled　on　about；　bring　myself
  tocare　。
  At　around　one　the　office　really　picked　up　pace；　because　everyone
  began　getting　ready　for　lunch。　Not　that　there　was　any　eating
  associated　with　the　lunch　hour；　but　it　was　the　prime　time　of　day　for
  guests。　I　watched　lazily　as　the　usual　array　of　stylists；
  contributors；　freelancers；　friends；　and　lovers　stopped　by　to　revel
  in　and　generally　soak　up　the　glamour　that　naturally　acpanied
  hundreds　of　thousands　of　dollars’　worth　of　clothes；　dozens　of
  gorgeous　faces；　and　what　felt　like　an　unlimited　amount　of　really；
  really；　really　long　legs。
  Jeffy　made　his　way　over　to　me　as　soon　as　he　could　confirm　that　both
  Miranda　and　Emily　had　left　for　lunch　and　handed　me　two　enormous
  shopping　bags。
  “Here；　check　this　stuff　out。　This　should　be　a　pretty　good　start。”
  I　dumped　the　contents　of　one　bag　onto　the　floor　beside　my　desk　and
  began　sorting。　There　were　Joseph　pants　in　camel　and　charcoal　gray；
  both　long　and　lean　and　low…waisted；　made　from　an　incredibly　soft
  wool。　A　pair　of　brown　suede　Gucci　pants　looked　as　though　they　could
  turn　any　schlub　into　a　supermodel；　while　two　pairs　of　perfectly
  faded　Marc　Jacobs　jeans　looked　like　they　were　custom　cut　for　my
  body。　There　were　eight　or　nine　options　for　tops；　ranging　from　a
  skintight　ribbed　turtleneck　sweater　by　Calvin　Klein　to　a　teeny；
  pletely　sheer　peasant　blouse　by　Donna　Karan。　A　dynamite　graphic
  Diane　Von　Furstenburg　wrap…dress　was　folded　neatly　over　a　navy；
  velvet　Tahari　pantsuit。　I　spotted　and　immediately　fell　in　love　with
  an　all…around　pleated　Habitual　denim　skirt　that　would　fall　just
  above　my　knees　and　look　perfect　with　the　decidedly　funky
  floral…printed　Katayone　Adelie　blazer。
  “These　clothes　。　。　。　this　is　all　for　me？”　I　asked；　hoping　I　sounded
  excited　and　not　offended。
  “Yeah；　it’s　nothing。　Just　some　things　that　have　been　lying　around
  the　Closet　forever。　We　might　have　used　some　of　it　in　shoots；　but
  none　of　it　ever　got　returned　to　the　panies。　Every　few　months　or
  so　I　clean　out　the　Closet　and　give　this　stuff　away；　and　I　figured
  you；　uh；　might　be　interested。　You’re　a　size　six；　right？”
  I　nodded；　still　dumbfounded。
  “Yeah；　I　could　tell。　Most　everyone　else　is　a　two　or　smaller；　so
  you’re　wele　to　all　of　it。”
  Ouch。　“Great。　This　is　just　great。　Jeffy；　I　can’t　thank　you　enough。
  It’s　all　amazing！”
  “Check　out　the　second　bag；”　he　said；　motioning　to　where　it　sat　on
  the　floor。　“You　don’t　think　you　can　pull　off　that　velvet　suit　with
  that　shitty　messenger　bag　you’re　always　dragging　around；　do　you？”
  The　second；　even　more　bulging　bag　spilled　forth　a　stunning　array　of
  shoes；　bags；　and　a　couple　of　coats。　There　were　two　pairs　of
  high…heeled　Jimmy　Choo　boots—one　ankle…　and　one　knee…length—two
  pairs　of　open…toe　Manolo　stiletto　sandals；　a　pair　of　classic　black
  Prada　pumps；　and　one　pair　of　Tod　loafers；　which　Jeffy　immediately
  reminded　me　to　never　wear　to　the　office。　I　slung　a　slouchy　red　suede
  bag　over　my　shoulder　and　immediately　saw　the　two　intersecting　“C”s
  carved　in　the　front；　but　that　wasn’t　nearly　as　beautiful　as　the　deep
  chocolate　leather　from　the　Celine　tote　that　I　threw　on　my　other　arm。
  A　long　military…style　trench　with　the　signature　oversize　Marc　Jacobs
  buttons　topped　it　all　off。
  “You’re　joking；”　I　said　softly；　fondling　a　pair　of　Dior　sunglasses
  he’d　apparently　thrown　in　as　an　afterthought。　“You’ve　got　to　be
  kidding。”
  He　looked　pleased　with　my　reaction　and　ducked　his　head。　“Just　do　me
  a　favor　and　wear　it；　OK？　And　don’t　tell　anyone　that　I　gave　you　first
  pick　on　all　this　stuff；　because　they　live　for　the　Closet　clean…outs；
  you　hear？”　He　bolted　from　the　suite　when　we　heard　Emily’s　voice　call
  out　to　someone　down　the　hall；　and　I　shoved　my　new　clothes　under　my
  desk。
  Emily　came　back　from　the　dining　room　with　her　usual　lunch：　an
  all…natural　fruit　smoothie　and　a　small　to…go　container　of　iceberg
  lettuce　topped　with　broccoli　and　balsamic　vinegar。　Not　vinaigrette。
  Vinegar。　Miranda　would　be　in　any　minute—Uri　had　just　called　to　say
  he　was　dropping　her　off—so　I　didn’t　have　my　usually　luxurious　seven
  minutes　to　beeline　to　the　soup　table　and　gulp　it　down　back　at　my
  desk。　The　minutes　ticked　by　and　I　was　starving；　but　I　just　didn’t
  have　the　energy　to　weave　through　the　Clackers　and　get　examined　by
  the　cashier　and　wonder　if　I　was　doing　permanent　damage　by　swallowing
  piping　hot　（and　fattening！）　soup　so　fast　that　I　could　feel　the　heat
  coursing　down　my　esophagus。Not　worth　it；　I　thought。Skipping　a　single
  meal　won’t　kill　you；　I　told　myself。In　fact；　according　to　every
  single　one　of　your　sane　and　stable　coworkers；　it’ll　just　make　you
  stronger。　And　besides；　2；000　pants　don’t　look　so　hot　on　girls　who
  gorge　themselves；　I　rationalized。　I　slumped　down　in　my　chair　and
  thought　of　how　well　I　had　just　representedRunway　magazine。
  11
  The　Cell　Phone　shrilled　from　somewhere　deep　in　my　dream；　but
  consciousness　took　over　long　enough　for　me　to　wonder　if　it　was　her。
  After　a　stunningly　fast　orientation　process—Where　am　I？　Who　is
  “she”？　What　day　is　it？—I　realized　that　having　the　phone　ring　at
  eight　on　a　Saturday　morning　was　not　a　good　omen。　None　of　my　friends
  would　be　awake　for　hours；　and　after　years　of　getting　screened　out；
  my　parents　had　grudgingly　acc