What I learned about my body, growing up in the 1950’s was that it was too big, too much. I was not a fat kid, but a tall kid with a big head and lots of wild red hair and an inability to avoid ripping out hems and buttoning sweaters one button off. I was a head taller than anyone else in the class of either sex until seventh grade. At that point the difference diminished but didn’t go away. I learned at school that big wasn’t pretty, that “petite” was pretty. Cute was impossible for a big girl, especially one who was serious and good at academics. I remember feeling good one day in college, walking across campus in a dress and shawl I loved and hearing a couple of boys lounging on the quad shout out “So feminine!” and laugh. I can still feel that moment in my stomach. It seemed like my body and my gender didn’t match in the eyes of many people. I’ve been fortunate to have found people who don’t think I’m “too much” and who appreciate my intensity and seriousness. But even now I have trouble believing I can be feminine and have size eleven feet and hands bigger than most men’s. I know that my body issues are different than fat, but so much of what you write resonates for me and touches old and new hurt spots. Thank you for writing and writing and writing your truth.