Now, at 42, I’ve made as much peace as a plus-size woman can make with her body. I might be big, but I’m plenty strong. I’ve run 5 kilometers and completed hundred-mile bike rides. In my career, my weight has never held me back. I’ve worked for national newspapers, written best-selling novels, had a book turned into a movie, co-written a TV show that made it on the air. I have a job I love, two smart, funny daughters, a rich, full life with wonderful friends, and a man who loves me... but I know that, when the world sees me, they don’t see any of this. They see fat.
My daughter sat on her bed, and I sat beside her. “How would you feel if someone made fun of you for something that wasn’t your fault?” I began. “She could stop eating so much,” Lucy mumbled, unwittingly mouthing the simple advice a thousand doctors and well-meaning friends and relatives have given overweight women for years.
“It’s not always that easy,” I said. “Everyone’s different in terms of how they treat food.” Lucy looked at me, waiting for me to go on. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Should I tell her that, in insulting a woman’s weight, she’s joined the long, proud tradition of critics who go after any woman with whom they disagree by starting with “you’re ugly” and ending with “no man would want you and there must be something wrong with any man who does”? Do I tell her I didn’t cry when someone posted my picture and commented underneath it, “I’m sorry, but aren’t chick-lit authors supposed to be pretty”?
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