And then I watched McCarthy’s character, Megan—clad in orthopedic sandals and a boxy, shape-obscuring pant-and-Guy Fieri bowling-shirt combo—look at a random man at a party and loudly announce that she was “going to climb that like a tree.” The audience erupted in laughter but I pursed my mouth. This still wasn’t as painful as the moment later in the film when the titular characters are on a flight to Vegas and Megan flirts with her cringing male seatmate by slapping her stomach and offering him access to her undercarriage. This gag shares an unspoken punchline with that misogynist old chestnut about rolling a fat woman in flour and seeking out the wet spot: that fat women’s bodies are inherently disgusting, especially when displaying sexual desire, and courting desire in turn. Visibility alone was no longer enough. I’m left longing for stories about fat women that don’t tumble off the wrong side of that thin tightrope between laughing with and laughing at.