I’m fat. My husband is not. He’s conventionally attractive and extremely athletic (he recently undertook a 42-mile run, just for fun). That’s not to say that fat people can’t also be athletic, of course, but I myself am decidedly not; he and I are polar opposites. Like many fat women (like many women full stop), I’ve had a complicated and not always healthy relationship with my body over the years, but these days I’m in a pretty good place. I’ve worked hard to overcome the anti-fat bias I learned growing up in the Noughties, and am able to love and appreciate my body for all the amazing things it helps me do: growing my daughter, moving, eating, laughing, breathing, typing these words. My husband does not have a complicated relationship with my body; he just thinks it’s awesome, and has never made any secret of his desire for me. Despite that, though, I sometimes feel self-conscious when we meet new people as a couple, and even more so when I’m introduced to friends he knows through his various outdoor pursuits. While I’m proud and confident in who I am, I still convince myself I’m not what they’re expecting, that they’re assuming I’ll be some lithe girl in lycra, and when they discover what I actually look like, they’ll be shocked. Basically, I worry they’ll judge us unevenly matched.
I know intellectually that this isn’t the case, but it can be difficult to believe that when I so rarely see other couples who look like us represented in the media. That’s why it’s been such a thrill to watch the unfolding romance between Pen (Nicola Coughlan) and Colin (Luke Newton) play out in the latest season of Bridgerton. Pen is a socially awkward writer who likes books, gossip, and staying indoors, so I was probably always going to find her deeply relatable, but the fact that she, like me, inhabits a body which is ever-so-slightly larger than those ordinarily allowed to appear on screen feels particularly significant. Yes, I appreciate that in every other respect she is extremely conventionally beautiful, and, yes, I also appreciate that her deviation from the expected body type is really only very slight, in the grand scheme of things. But for this international juggernaut of a show to have her as its romantic heroine opposite Newton’s tall, dark and oh-so-handsome Colin feels honestly groundbreaking, and I love to see it.
Another recent example is BBC One’s The Tourist, in which Danielle Macdonald’s Helen is engaged to an entirely odious man who habitually insults her, forces her to diet, and belittles her career ambitions. Watching her wake up to the toxicity of this relationship and instead lean into her burgeoning chemistry with Elliot – played by 2015’s sexiest man alive Jamie Dornan – who never once questions his attraction to her, and treats her with the respect and adoration she deserves, was intoxicating. When Helen tells him, as if it should be obvious, that she’s dieting because she “needs to be slimmer”, he responds with a politely doubtful “if you say so”. To some, it might sound like a throwaway line, but for me it was perfect; the way it acknowledges Helen’s right to bodily autonomy, while also gently yet firmly refusing to endorse the notion that her body is anything less than sensational just as it is, right now. The next morning they wake up in bed together, and I lost my tiny mind.
Fat women don’t usually get to see ourselves as the romantic lead: at best, we’re the funny best friend with no discernible life of our own; at worst, we’re an abject psycho stalker who’s undesirability is read as inherent. Very often we’re shown to be tragic figures leading miserable lives as a result of our weight, with no sense of identity beyond being fat, and always performing the required behaviours of the “Good Fatty”; dieting, exercising, generally self-abnegating, accepting poor treatment from romantic partners, and always apologising for taking up so much goddamn space. It’s a dangerous and damaging stereotype because it teaches fat women that that’s how we’re supposed to be, and that our bodies are something we ought to be miserable about, while simultaneously reinforcing the idea that fat people are somehow morally inferior, and therefore less worthy of love and respect, for the rest of the population.
It’s really heartening to note that Bridgerton has avoided many of these pitfalls: Colin, having realised his attraction to Pen, doesn’t worry about how society will view the match, or ask her to keep their relationship a secret; Pen doesn’t talk about how she hates her appearance or wishes her body were different. True, she does undergo a makeover of sorts, but this is nothing like that problematic rom-com trope of yore, in which some shy, bespectacled girl with an unflattering haircut is coerced and cajoled into a tight-fitting dress; no one is insisting to Pen that she must change up her look in order to better comply with society’s notion of what’s hot. Rather, the changes Pen makes to her appearance are entirely self-directed; “I do not wish to see a citrus colour ever again,” she declares at the modiste. In fact, I’d argue that she isn’t so much transformed as she is revealed: after years of allowing her personal style – and, indeed, her life in general – to be dictated by her overbearing, lemon-loving mother, Pen is finally taking back control, and stepping out as her true self; it’s that which turns every head at the ball (as well as her admittedly chic-as-hell new dress).
It’s impossible to overstate how big of a deal this kind of representation is for me: after years of imbibing the message that a body like mine is unworthy of love, watching characters like Pen and Helen be adored and desired feels monumental, triumphant, healing. Fat women can be joyful; we can be fulfilled, and successful, and talented, and sexy, and beautiful, and loved – and we can absolutely bang hot guys (in horse-drawn carriages or elsewhere). I’m grateful to Bridgerton for the reminder.
