I loved Louise Kean’s book The Perfect Fit. It’s a must read for any girl who believes that a certain “ideal weight” or a certain size is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Parts of it were not my cup of tea, but nonetheless, I’m a true believer that fiction always has some gem of wisdom. In Sunny Weston’s case, she understood love and the relationship it plays with weight/food obsessions.
Love according to Sunny Weston…
I never guessed that this is how it would feel to fall in love. If my therapist had mumbled it I would have given him a patronizing smile, and looked for answers elsewhere. But it’s true, for me at least.
Love isn’t the rush of infatuation. That’s how infatuation feels.
It isn’t the demanding urges of lust: that is just lust.
It isn’t fireworks, or nausea, or fainting, or any of the things that I thought it would be.
It is a feeling that gently creeps its way around your body, and whispers in your ears, and tickles your back between your shoulder blades, and traces its finger across your palms, gently whispering the whole time until you just can’t ignore it anymore: ‘You love him.’
It’s a feeling that doesn’t announce itself with trumpets or fanfare, it nudges your lips into a smile, and that smile refuses to fade for a whole minute. It isn’t all-consuming, not every second of every minute of every day. But it’s often, and it’s random, and it emerges like a plane trailing a banner across your mind, emblazoned with these words, ‘You love him.’
It’s the tiny conversation with him that fizzes and sparkles constantly in the back of your head, about everything you see, and the need to share it all with him, and hear what he thinks. You want him to see what you see.
So I learned that love is not explosions or drama. It idles up gently, and settles down beside you, and you may not ever realize until you glance around and see it sitting back, comfortable and relaxed, as if it had been there all along.