I've never, ever been a small woman. From the time I was a toddler to today at my ripe old age of 32, my body has always been on the heavier side. For the first few years of my life (in fact, most of it) I wasted time feeling wholly unlovable. I couldn't fathom anyone would want to be with me full time. Any "dating" I had done before I met my husband wasn't serious and often ended rather abruptly.
I always assumed it was me, and more so assumed I was OK to kiss but not OK to hang out with because of my size. I mean who'd want all … this?
But at the tender age of 18 I met my husband, and my views on that drastically changed.
When I met my husband, he was a thin man, barely taller than me.
He had dark blackish-brown hair, glasses, a full beard and a lean build. The first thing I really noticed about him was his strikingly kind eyes. A mutual friend loosely set us up (and even came with us on our first date), and I remember when we were ending the night, he confessed she sent him a picture and he had a hard time believing I was single.
"Why?" I asked rather bluntly. After all, I'm the kind of fat that doesn't have anywhere to hide. He genuinely seemed confused.
"What do you mean why? You're beautiful."
He didn't say I was beautiful for a fat girl, just that I was beautiful. And it was the first time I really ever heard that with no caveats attached.
I remember waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He was this handsome, genuinely kind and funny, wonderful guy, so why would he want to date me? I didn't think I was necessarily a bad person, but just that I physically didn't have a lot to offer.
Perhaps he was a weirdo with a secret fetish? Or maybe this was some sort of joke, concocted to embarrass me?
But day after day, he proved he wasn't in it for any other reason than simply loving me.
He even enthusiastically reminded me how much he was attracted to me — even when I'd remind him of how I couldn't wear his hoodies or borrow a pair of shorts.
After months of rebuffing his compliments with weird reminders of our different sizes, he finally got annoyed enough to put me in my place.
"Lauren, I don't care about that stuff. It means literally nothing," he said definitively. "I'm with you and love you because I want to, plain and simple."
Plain and simple.
The months turned into years, and years were filled with new apartments, a dog, marriage, a house, and a baby.
They even had quite a few hiccups, some my fault, some his, but ultimately, it's been full of a lot of love. But more importantly, it was through that love I was allowed to grow into myself.
Late into my 20s, I started learning to truly love the body I had. Even as it waxed, waned, and waxed again, I learned that my worth did not equate to my size, and that it certainly had nothing to do with my being a good partner.
More importantly, I realized my husband's affection and attraction to me was not some sort of fringe, freak case.
It took me a few years to realize it myself, but I'm worth loving, no matter what size I am.
My husband hasn't done me any favors by loving me. He isn't some benevolent saint for being with a women who is bigger than him. Being attracted to a plus-size person as a thin person isn't an anomaly. It doesn't mean there is something wrong with the straight sized person for their attraction. It's incredibly fat phobic and dismisses big people as, well, less than people. My husband isn't a "hero" for recognizing that.
My husband is a hero for tying my shoes when I couldn't bend around my pregnant belly. He's a hero for loving me through my screwups (of which there have been many). For not looking at me differently even after he walked in on me plucking my chin hairs (of which there are also many). He's a hero for loving me and my son through so many different obstacles and for showing up when it counts.
His love isn't conditional and that is heroic.
