Fat and ugly girls

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I appreciate my ugly years, they saved me from ever attaching too much worth to my features.

At the outer reaches of my consciousness, there had long lurked a stubborn belief that enjoying the intimate company of a woman was a cop-out because you were fat, or hopelessly ugly.

My sister, then in her teens, went stiff in her chair, palms flattened to the air as though pressing it away from her, and bleated:

My mother suggested I switch the girls' appearances around.

I also pored over the bra section of the Sears catalog, trying to detect the dusky outline of a nipple beneath a layer of white lace.

And then Dad said, with stiff jaw and spittle forming at the corners of his mouth:

Looks Don't Matter!

If you are a broke pretty girl, try to put a personality on lay-a-way.