Off the Rack: Chapter 2
| September 29, 2021Instead of a plan of action, I walked out of that nutritionist’s office with a bundle of humiliation and a new layer of shame
“You need to lose weight,” the nutritionist told me, her lips pursed in disgust.
I stepped off the scale and slipped my shoes back on, not bothering to look at the number on the scale screen. Whatever it was, I knew it was big — too big for an 11th-grade girl who wanted to look good and fit in.
“You’re going to graduate high school soon and then start dating,” the nutritionist continued. “Unless you get skinnier, who is going to want to marry you?” She shook her head side to side. “I can’t imagine that someone will want to marry you like this.”
I bit my lip and blinked back the tears. Didn’t she know that I knew I was overweight? How would making me feel worse help me?
I’d never been a skinny kid, but over the winter of 11th grade, I started gaining even more weight.
“The buttons on my skirt are too tight,” I told my mother a few months into the school year.
She sighed and called up a local nutritionist to make an appointment. “We’re going to help you through this phase,” my mother reassured me.
But instead of a plan of action, I walked out of that nutritionist’s office with a bundle of humiliation and a new layer of shame. I was an embarrassment to anyone who knew me. No one would ever want to marry me. In a world that considers marriage to be a prize — and the only one — I would never amount to much. Was there any hope for me?
On the way home from the nutritionist, my mother and I stopped in a clothing store to try to find a few outfits. My closet was empty. Most of my clothes, which didn’t fit me anymore, were piled outside the door of my room, ready to be delivered to a local gemach.
“Can you help us find some nice casual outfits?” my mother asked the saleslady.
The saleslady didn’t bother to walk over. “We don’t carry her size.”
Why not? I wondered — but didn’t ask. The saleslady turned back to her racks, and my mother and I walked out empty-handed.
I knew I wasn’t the only girl alive who hovered above classic sizes. Why shouldn’t I be able to buy a Shabbos outfit?
“People think chubby babies are cute,” I vented to my mother. “At what point does that switch from adorable to gross?”
My mother shook her head. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t have answers. It was just the way we worked — the same way most Jewish stores only carried up to a size 14, and the way a Jewish XL barely fits an average-sized woman. There was a tiny range of sizes you could be, and anything beyond that, well… you’d have to work it out on your own.
“One day, I’m going to change that,” I promised myself.
I was a young girl with big dreams of a world where anyone, any size, could walk into a store and feel beautiful. The dream followed me. When I was in seminary, I spent a lot of time sitting on the top of the mountain near the dorms with a pen and paper.
Who was I, Rechama Jaffa? What did I want to do in life? What would make me happy? As I stared over the Jerusalem mountaintops, the same images kept flickering into my mind.
The picture of a young Rechama walking down Coney Island Avenue and staring at the dresses on the mannequins.
The picture of a young Rechama, hesitating at the doorway of a party because she knew that when she walked in, she’d feel like the elephant in the room.
The picture of a young Rechama, running through the aisles of a clothing store and feeling such pride when she could help someone find the piece they were looking for.
“I’m going to open the first frum, fully plus-sized clothing line one day,” I wrote in my seminary journal. I was going to create beautifully crafted, fashion-forward clothing that wouldn’t leave plus-sized women feeling uncomfortable, but like the most gorgeous person in the room.
to be continued…
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 761)
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