The Good Fight

And maybe neon green, just for kicks.

Not that anyone would believe me. Apparently, being an overweight older single doesn’t translate as awesome. The thing is, I don’t actually care. I love my job, my roommate is the sister I never had — okay, I have three sisters, she’s just the sister I actually get along with — and our apartment, with its wood paneled floors, skylights, and island kitchen, is my happy place.

Yeah, ‘cause that will fly at the next 15-year-old cousin’s wedding. I’m kidding, she’s 19, but still. Babies raising babies and all that.

Retail therapy, here I come. Oh, but first, actual therapy.

“It’s not that I feel the need to prove anything to the world,” I explain to Sarah, my wonderful, amazing therapist. “It’s more that I want to punch the next person who tells me that if I lose weight, my prospects will start flooding in. I mean, A, I’m healthy. I asked the doctor. Yeah, I can lose weight if I want, but he said everything is great. And B, why, why, why is getting married contingent on being a size zero? I have an amazing job, I’m smart, funny, talented—”