When It Comes to Healthy Self-Esteem, One Size Fits All

I’ll admit, I was flattered at first.

My friend Linda, a pattern-maker for a clothing manufacturer, asked me to be a “fit model” for her company. Fit models are like live dressmakers’ forms, Linda explained. Designers use them to make sure their clothing fits correctly. A fit model must be well-proportioned and have the ideal measurements for a certain size.

I certainly never thought of myself as an “ideal” size. Like most women, I obsess over a few pounds and generally think my life would be better if my thighs were smaller.

But Linda measured me and pronounced me a perfect junior Size 7. It still didn’t seem right. I’m 27, and although my measurements might match a Size 7, my body is not a teen-ager’s. As every woman knows, even those who weigh the same as they did when they were 16 (which I don’t), our bodies change as we get older.

But Linda reassured me. And at $50 an hour, who wouldn’t be tempted?

So, one afternoon a short time later, I went to Linda’s company in an L.A. suburb. Per Linda’s instructions, I brought tights, slip-on shoes, hair ties and a T-shirt. I should be prepared to try on many different kinds of clothes, she said.

I was escorted into a huge warehouse filled with clothing, sewing machines and offices, and then into a small room where Linda worked with three other pattern-makers.

Linda took me into another room where the designer waited. I was instructed to try on several short, tight, stretchy dresses--the kind of dresses you see high school girls wearing. They were outfits I might have worn when I was 16, but they were less than flattering on me now. I looked silly.

Linda and the designer seemed to think I was fine. Before they could officially use me as a fit model, however, I had to be OKd by The Boss. Linda had warned me about him: “He’s a jerk.”

“He’s very busy, so if he’s kind of gruff with you, don’t be offended,” the designer cautioned.

They dressed me in a clingy knit dress covered with tiny print flowers and escorted me down a long hall toward The Boss’s office.

I started to get nervous. The dress left nothing to the imagination--it completely outlined my figure, and this man was about to decide if it--if I--was acceptable.

We arrived in a large office, the only one in the warehouse, I noticed, equipped with curtains and furniture.

There he sat, my judge. I had half-expected to see a fat man with a stogie dangling from his lips, but instead I was greeted by a rather handsome blond man in his 30s wearing a well-pressed suit and sitting behind a big desk. A well-coiffed dark-haired man in a pin-striped suit sat across from him--a sales rep, I was told later.

I began to sweat, and my heart began to pound.

I stood in front of the blond man. He looked me up and down.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

I spun around quickly.

“Hey, slow down,” he said.

*

I turned around again and stood with my back to him. He stared at my rear end (or I can only assume he was staring at that part of my anatomy). I stood there. He stared. I felt sick.

I finally turned back around.

“What size are her hips?” he barked to Linda.

She told him.

“That’s too big,” he said. “What about her waist and chest?”

Again, too big.

“We all agreed that her measurements are the right size,” Linda said.

“I’ve been in this business 14 years, and Size 7 has always been 35-25-36,” he said.

“She has the same measurements that Racquel (the last fit model) had,” Linda protested.

“Well, Racquel was too big, too!” he responded.

I’m sure my face turned about a hundred shades of gray and red during those few minutes. I wished I could disappear. Or at least shrink.

I slunk back to the dressing room to change into my own clothes. Within 10 minutes I had gone from perfect to cow.

“I’m really sorry,” Linda said. “He’s wrong--you really do have the right measurements.”

“That’s OK. I think I’ll eat a cake now,” I said.

“I think I’ll get a gun and a knife now,” she said.

*

She was right. Why would I want to eat a cake, when he was the jerk who had proclaimed me--and just about every woman over 18--”too big”?

Why are grown women modeling teen-agers’ clothes, anyway?

That day I learned firsthand what it means to be a “piece of meat.” It was a woman’s worst nightmare--or the worst nightmare of any woman who has any kind of body image, which includes most women I know--being told: “Your body is not right.” It was one of the most humiliating experiences I can remember, in part because I had put myself in the situation.

Now, I cannot imagine how models and actresses cope with the constant appraisal of their physical appearance. Their livelihoods depend on being “perfect.” I used to think models were overpaid; now I think they earn what they make for what they put up with. What a horrid feeling to make your living based on a perception of what you should look like.

As I drove home--past the billboards with half-naked women advertising all sorts of products, past the huge Bud Lite woman hovering over Santa Monica Boulevard--I had to laugh. I, a feminist who argues that women should not be exploited for their bodies, who wants to be seen for who I am, not for my measurements, had so quickly been seduced into the world of thinner-is-better.

I didn’t go home and eat a cake. But I know I’ll never attempt to be a fit model again. At any price.