It seems like in every romance novel I read lately, the heroine has this luscious body with curves in all (and only) the right places, a thin waist and a nonexistent belly pooch. These amazing bodied-ladies never exercise (possibly because they are too busy having sex) and eat like pigs. Many of these ladies indulge in ice cream, usually around midnight, and are almost always eventually joined by the hero in their pig-out sessions, who is, of course, enchanted by their woman’s ravenous appetite. These men are impressed — not turned off — by the fact that these ladies can eat a steak and potato at 8:00 at night and then a large pepperoni pizza after a long love-making session at 3:00 in the morning, and still manage to rival Gisele Bundchen in a bikini.

Some of these ladies will even make it a point to brag about their quick metabolisms. I get this is the author’s way of justifying this fantasy-exclusive, consequence-free behavior. But I pose this question — when was the last time you felt empathy and a kindred-spirit for a woman who could eat half a lasagna and still rock a string bikini?