Excerpt from "Good In Bed"

I have horrible mood swings. As you can tell from this post compared to my previous one, from last night... but whatever.

GOOD IN BED is a novel I recently read, written by Jennifer Weiner; it's about a woman dealing with learning to love herself, basically, despite the fact that she is a "larger woman" (as her ex-boyfriend calls her in his national magazine column) and that she's grown up with the expectation that no one could love her as a larger woman. This is an excerpt from the book, an article she writes in response to her ex-boyfriends column and the year she spent learning who she is.

"Loving A Larger Woman" by Candace Shapiro

When I was five I learned to read. Books were a miracle to me--white pages, black ink, and new worlds and different friends in each one. To this day, I relish the feeling of cracking a binding for the first time, the anticipation of where I'll go and whom I'll meet inside.
When I was eight I learned to ride a bike. And this, too, opened my eyes to a new world that I could explore on my own--the brook that burbled through a vacant lot two streets over, the ice-cream store that sold homemade cones for a dollar, the orchard that bordered a golf course and that smelled tangy, like cider, from the apples that rolled to the ground in the fall.
When I was twelve I learned that I was fat. My father told me, pointing at the insides of my thighs and the undersides of my arms with the handle of his tennis racquet. We'd been playing, I remember, and I was flushed and sweaty, glowing with the joy of movement. "You'll need to watch that," he told me, poking me with the handle so that the extra flesh jiggled. Men don't like fat women.
And even though this would turn out not to be absolutely true--there would be men who would love me, and there would be people who'd respect me--I carried his words into my adulthood like a prophecy, viewing the world through the prism of my body, and my father's prediction.
I learned how to diet--and, of course, how to cheat on diets. I learned how to feel miserable and ashamed, how to cringe away from mirrors and men's glances, how to tense myself for the insults that I always thought were coming: the Girl Scout troop leader who'd offer me carrot sticks while the other girls got milk and cookies; the well-meaning teacher who'd ask if I'd thought about aerobics. I learned a dozen tricks for making myself invisible--how to keep a towel wrapped around my midsection at the beach (but never swim), how to fade to the back row of any group photograph (and never smile), how to dress in shades of gray, black, and brown, how to avoid seeing my own reflection in windows or in mirrors, how to think of myself exclusively as a body--more than that, as a body that had fallen short of the mark, that had become something horrifying, unlovely, unloveable. 
There were a thousand words that could have described me-- smart, funny, kind, generous. But the word I picked--that word that I believed the world had picked for me-- was fat.
When I was twenty-two I went out into the world in a suit of invisible armor, fully expecting to be shot at, but determined that I wouldn't get shot down. I got a wonderful job, and eventually fell in love with a man I thought would love me for the rest of my life. He didn't. And then--by accident--I got pregnant. And when my daughter was born almost two months too soon, I learned that there are worse things than not liking your thighs or your butt. There are more terrifying things that trying on bathing suits in front of three-way department-store mirrors. There is the fear of watching your child struggling for breath, in the center of a glass crib where you can't touch her. There is the terror of imagining a future where you can't touch her There is the terror of imagining a future where she won't be healthy or strong.
And, ultimately, I learned, there is comfort. Comfort in reaching out to the people who love you, comfort in asking for help, and in realizing, finally, that I am valued, treasured, loved, even if I am never going to be smaller than a size sixteen, even if my story doesn't have the Hollywood-perfect happy ending where I lose sixty pounds and Prince Charming decides that he loves me after all.
The truth is this--I'm all right the way I am. I was all right, all along. I will never be thin, but I will be happy. I will love myself, and my body, for what it can do--because it is strong enough to life, to walk, to ride a bicycle up a hill, to embrace the people I love and hold them fully, and to nurture a new life. I will love myself because I am sturdy. Because I did not--will not--break.
I will savor the taste of my food and I will savor my life, and if Prince Charming never shows up-- or, worse yet, if he drives be, casts a cool appraising glance at me, and tells me I've got a beautiful face and have I ever considered OPTIFAST?--I will make my peace with that.
And most importantly, I will love my daughter whether she's big or little. I will tell her that she's beautiful. I will teach her to swim and read and ride a bike. And I will tell her that whether she's a size eight or a size eighteen, she can be happy, and strong, and secure that she will find friends, and success, and even love. I will whisper it in her ear when she's sleeping. I will say, "Our lives--your life--will be extraordinary."