BRYONY GORDON: I’m in a ‘mixed weight’ relationship, and that didn’t stop my husband from delighting me last night.

This is something I don’t usually mention in polite conversation: I weigh more than my husband. It looks like I ate him for breakfast.

I often eat it for breakfast, purely figuratively speaking, of course, when I realize that she hasn’t sent her father a birthday card or asked for time off work for the family vacation.

I don’t talk about the size issue much anyway, because after a lifetime of self-loathing, I’ve only relatively recently reached a point where I no longer define myself by my weight. I’ve been there, I’ve done it, and it’s only left me feeling miserable (and hungry).

So here I am, curvy, confident and showered with compliments from my adoring husband, who has no complaints about my larger figure, certainly not if the stunning spanking he gave me last night is any indication.

But I know it bothers others. I know it bothers them because you only have to look at the anger that was unleashed on footballer Declan Rice’s girlfriend Lauren Fryer earlier this year, when vile trolls making comments about her weight forced Fryer to shut down her social media accounts.

And I know it bothers others, because respectable magazines that normally only publish articles about politics and business are cutting all that short to produce long polemics about the fact that the new series of Bridgerton features a couple having lots of passionate sex, even though the woman is apparently bigger than the man. Imagine! In The Spectator, a (female) writer wrote an entire article about how unlikely it was that the “handsome and rich” Colin Bridgerton would want Nicola Coughlan, who plays his love interest, Penelope. “She’s not attractive, and there’s no escaping it… she’s fat,” the article, which ran to about 1,000 words, said.

Meanwhile, Forbes readers, who include CEOs and industry titans, were treated to a lengthy article this week titled, “Are We Still Not Ready For A Mixed-Weight On-Screen Romance?” Clearly not, at least when the “fat” person in the relationship is a woman.

Because, in truth, the culture has been replete with “mixed-weight romances” since the dawn of television. It’s just that, as far as I can tell, neither The Spectator nor Forbes felt compelled to publish articles exploring the implausibility of the relationships between Marge and Homer Simpson, or Tony and Carmela Soprano.

Come to think of it, the fat husband/thin wife dynamic is quite the trope on television, particularly in sitcoms and cartoons, from Fred and Wilma Flintstone to Charlotte and Harry in Sex and the City.

But a fat wife and a thin husband? No one would ever accept that! (Unless the story involves her getting fat and him leaving for a younger, thinner woman.)

My husband and I have always had a mixed-weight romance. Me, smooth, swaying, “Rubenesque,” ​​as he drooled on one of our first dates; he, lean, muscular, fond of wearing tight white Gap T-shirts that I can’t get off because of my heaving chest, thus nullifying the fantasy I always had of wandering around a boyfriend’s apartment looking “cute” in his oversized T-shirts and boxers (it turns out it’s Harry who steals my sweaters).

I’d always had this ridiculous patriarchal belief that I needed to be small to get a man, that a man would find me attractive only if he could hold me in his arms like King Kong. Then I met Harry and was reminded that not all men are so shallow or empty.

Ironically, it was her love for me in all my dimpled, jiggly glory that set me on the path to my own self-acceptance and the knowledge that I deserve to exist and be happy no matter what my body looks like.

But I know our mixed-weight romance surprises some people. There are friends who would never be rude enough to mention my size, but they frequently mention their own. “My goodness, Harry looks slim!” they say when we meet for lunch. My husband is usually eating some kind of lean protein and salad while I enjoy the contents of the bread basket. “He always looks slim,” I point out between bites. “Now pass me the butter.”

As a plus-size woman who loves to parade around in a bikini on social media, I’m used to the fatphobia directed at Nicola Coughlan (who, let’s face it, isn’t actually fat at all).

I am often shamed for my physique by strangers. The other day, while I was jogging by the river, a man decided to yell at me, “run, fatty, run,” as if that would make either of our days better. For the record, he was sitting on his butt, doing nothing more energetic than smoking a cigarette.

I regularly receive messages from faceless trolls, telling me how disgusting I am to them and how much they would not want to have sex with me. The scariest thing is that it never occurs to them that I would not want to have sex with them.

All of this is enough to make me want to misquote Winston Churchill: “I may be fat, but in the morning I’ll have chips for breakfast and you’ll still be a nasty misogynist.” Indeed, our obsession with women’s bodies is exhausting and exhausting. It’s not just weight differences that are discussed in relationships, but height and age differences as well.

I don’t think people realize how unattractive it is to hear someone comment on someone else’s body. The same can be said of a giant red flag on the ground next to their own that says, “JUDGMENTAL, PERSONLESS FOOL.”

Which brings me to my biggest problem with Bridgerton (and it has nothing to do with weight). It’s that the brilliant, sassy Penelope Featherington would want to have sex with the charisma-void Colin. Now that’s bad casting.