Good In Bed: Bad On Page
I don't usually feel the need to comment on my reading material, but this one was sort of personal, so thusly, I commented. Like, a lot.
When I heard the title, “Good in Bed,” I thought to myself, well goodness, that sounds worth the read. When I look at the cover-crossed, bare legs in shades that skirt the border of pastel-little alarms go off in my head: warning! Chick Lit ahead! Proceed with caution, and possibly a pint of Hagen Daaz! But, as the person who recommended it to me pointed out, it’s about a fat chick in Philly who has relationship issues, and I (along with thousands of other Philadelphia-based fatties) can relate to that.
So I read it. I’m almost embarrassed to say I devoured it. I had to know what would happen to the plus-sized heroine next. She was struggling to recover from the end of her most recent relationship, and had doubts about whether she would ever find someone else again.
Ahem. Check.
Her father was absent for most of her childhood, and when he was there, he was anything but a positive force.
Daddy issues. Uh hunh. Check.
She endures an on-going love-hate relationship with her body and the way society views her body.
Whatever, check, okay? Friggin’ check.
She uses humor as a shield-for better or worse, in some cases.
Yeah, yeah, check.
Yes, alright, it all sounded familiar-I identified strongly with the main character, almost against my will. In fact, because of her vague and ubiquitous issues and my connection to them, I started to feel as though I would share her fate somehow.
When she meets a celebrity through her work at a local paper, who takes her screenplay and works movie magic on it, landed our hero in Hollywood, I thought to myself, Hunh. I guess that does happen.
When she meets and locks lips with her celebrity crush, I started wondering which of my hundred-and-one media obsession could be convinced, with the right amount of alcohol and charm, to make out with me.
When she meets and gets with a kind and handsome doctor, I thought, Well, some guys like a little meat on the bone.
Overall, I kept reading because I felt excited by this basic mantra: If it happened to her, it can happen to me.
Imagine my shock when I realized this book was not autobiographical. I don’t know where I got the idea that it was a memoir, but I did, and it completely changed the way I viewed what I was reading. There were moments that felt so real (talking about her relationship with her father) but they were balanced out by moments that should have (and sort of did) set off my “Bullshit” alert (sitting in a public bathroom gabbing with a starlette). Once I realized Good In Bed was a work of fiction, I wanted the brain cells now containing snippets of the book to be freed up for other things, like pointers from The Zombie Survival Guide. Much more useful.
I’m probably the last person who should lecture about self-indulgence, given that the most recent fic I posted focused on an OFC by the name of Sara Winchester, for fuck’s sake, but COME ON. If I had known that it was totally acceptable to publish your fantasies, I’d have a best-selling series about pretty vampires who sparkle-oh, ahhhh...never mind.
I’ve had daydreams-elaborate, far-fetched daydreams-of my script being somehow picked up and flying off to Hollywood and giving tearful speeches at the Oscars and making out with a bevy of babes at the after party. I’ve imagined the romantic stranger who would take me by surprise and say those magic words that I, and many other zaftig women, long to hear: No, you take the last piece. Mmmmm. But in no way did I ever even consider writing any of this down. Which apparently was my mistake, as it appears you can make BANK doing just that.
And perhaps I’m being unfair-after all, I’m the sort of person that would prefer to read a book where, if a character thinks that something is the end of the world, it’s not because they’re being melodramatic. Maybe I have no business reading stories about the tribulations of dating in our modern age-it’s a subject matter I know virtually nothing about (although from what I hear, I’m not missing much).
And it was nice, after all, to see a fat woman take a stand and say, “I’m mad/depressed/hungry as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Society is not usually kind to us sizable folk, and solidarity is comforting in a world that would prefer if you didn’t take up the space you do. Whatever I ultimately think of the book, that one thing still remains, I suppose. I guess it’s sort of that ultimate question: is any representation, even representation as being sort of self-absorbed, whiney, and mildly homophobic, better than no representation at all?
But nevertheless, in my gut, I can’t help being of the opinion that Good In Bed would have been better if it stayed in Jennifer Weiss’s head. Thanks for the false hope, Jenn.