When we were kids, my sisters and I used to devour cheesy "Millie the Model" comic books. They related the madcap adventures of a trio of beautiful heroines (a sweet, innocent blonde, a serious, steady brunette, and a spicy redhead named Ginger). There was also an ugly (fat) sidekick I tried hard not to identify with. (I was a big fan of the "Classic Comics" too, kind of a preadolescent version of CliffNotes.) I'm sure nobody who reads this is old enough to remember those, but when I stumbled onto a link to Stupid Comics, it all came rushing back.
Check out Charlton Romance's Eating Disorder Clinic under "Romance-a-go-go." Although I've never had a boss who hesitated to sexually harass me because I was too fat, I've had plenty of would-be suitors for whom My Weight was The Relationship Issue. It also makes me recall my infamous 33rd birthday, when the Turkish Engineer proudly presented me with an unasked-for, never-to-be-used exercise bicycle. (No, wait, I take that back: that exercise bicycle made an excellent towel rack for several years, and was usually festooned with drying panty hose and other unmentionables.)
I've been the ungrateful recipient of a number of "Pygmalion Gifts" over the years, usually from boyfriends. But that exercise bike was the worst one, because it was the most expensive and took up the most floor space in our apartment.
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