My friend Lee is ridiculously gorgeous. She is tall, and very slender, long-legged and narrow-hipped, absolutely lovely with a cloud of blonde hair, and just generally--gorgeous. Gorgeous was a word that was kind of invented for her. You are surprised, when you meet her, that anyone could be as pretty as she is in real life.

And you are lucky to have met her, because she is funny and warm, confident and hilarious and fun. You can't imagine her ever having a moment of self-doubt, because women who look like her have nothing to doubt, or fear. And she bears that out, every day--she is completely confident in her skin, in her place in the world. You could hate her for having what you want, if she didn't make you feel like you are as flawless and fearless as she is, every time you hang out with her.

One night, both of us a little tipsy, I found out that she had agreed to be a photographer's model, and that it had been one of the hardest things she had ever done, being naked, being scrutinized and photographed and on film. "But you're perfect," I said--my knee jerk reaction. She was slender, and pretty, and how could she possibly have body issues? It didn't seem right, and it didn't seem fair, and it wasn't fair that one of my most cherished hopes--all I needed in life was to be gorgeous, and all my problems would be solved--was a big lie.

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