Last week my husband and I met a woman who I found to be quite attractive. Later that night when we were home I mentioned how pretty she was.

My husband looked at me like I was crazy. “Her? She’s not pretty. Why would you say that?”

I didn’t understand why he didn’t think she was pretty. She was youthful, thin, and was good looking. Wasn’t she?

No, she wasn’t, he told me. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t good looking. She was an average woman, neither pretty nor exotic, nor ugly or homely. A Plain Jane.

I didn’t understand it. How could she find her to be average? She was probably a size four. She’ s a runner. Of course she’s attractive.

It was only when I was driving home today, still musing over how wrong he was, that I finally understood the truth: I have been equating body size/shape with beauty.

She’s thin, therefore she’s beautiful.

I’m fat, therefore I’m ugly.

Only recently have I started to feel good looking even though I’m still very much officially fat. Only recently have I accepted compliments of “Wow, you look great” with a reply of “Thank you, that’s nice of you to say” instead of negating it. Only recently have I started to accept something completely new:

I’m strong, therefore I’m awesome.

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