It's not exactly startling news that the American female's relationship with her body is a tad dysfunctional. Our overidealization of slim hips and tight abs has spawned an industry whose profits could fund the defense budget, as well as a whole passel of wildly varying physiological and psychological theories. It's also, inevitably, inspired a fair amount of humor. You can't be in the throes of a national preoccupation with cottage-cheese-curd buttocks without eventually considering that it's a pretty eccentric subject to get whipped up over.

Authors Marx and Sistrom (the latter a nom de plume widely ascribed to New Yorker writer Susan Orlean) understand that anything that takes up that much space in our brains is worthy of both legitimate attention and serious ribbing, and they attempt to provide both in "The Skinny." Unfortunately, they wind up not just falling short but also coming across as downright disturbing.

THE SKINNY: WHAT EVERY SKINNY WOMAN KNOWS ABOUT DIETING (AND WON'T TELL YOU!) BY PATRICIA MARX AND SUSAN SISTROM DELL TRADE PAPERBACKS NONFICTION 207 PAGES

When I first heard the premise of the book -- it's a guide to the tips and tricks of the gauntly chic urbanites for whom Tom Wolfe coined the term "social X-rays," a manual of the secrets that no sane doctor, trainer or nutritionist would ever let you in on -- I was intrigued. "The Skinny, " I believed, would be a sendup of "never too rich or too thin" zeal, with perhaps a little feel-good practical advice slipped in. I thought I was its perfect audience -- a weight-loss success story who'd survived years of debasement before the almighty scale, who'd downed cabbage soup and instant breakfasts, who'd spazzed out in front of the VCR with Fonda. Is our female obsession with weight and weight loss funny? Well, mine sure was.

I should mention that even at my top weight I never achieved epic, "Didn't I see you floating at the Macy's parade?" proportions. Throughout adolescence and particularly in my freshman year of college, I was what others gently referred to as "voluptuous," "Rubenesque" and, most damning of all, "moon-faced." What this really meant was that my male friends loved to tell me what a great pal I was, usually as they were tripping over themselves to get next to my less ample companions. Then, the summer before I turned 19, I decided I'd get more action if I lost weight. And surprise, surprise, I was right. That fall I returned to school with 20 pounds gone and another 20 soon to follow. Eager to show off the new me, I decked myself out for the first big party of the year in a tight red dress. Call me petty, call me shallow, but the fact remains that when the dorm stud sauntered over and asked me if we could get together later, it was probably the second most satisfying moment of my life. The first was when I looked him in the eye and coolly replied, "Sorry. I'm busy."

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