My Mother. The French Model.

Growing up with a gorgeous mother when you only own one pair of pants you can fit in.

My mother was a model before we were born. There was a picture of her in a different outfit every day, on the cover of the most-read newspaper in Paris, the fashion capital of the world. By the time I came along, she wasn’t modeling anymore, but she was still a fashion icon. She almost married Daniel Hechter, a famous kid’s wear designer in the 60’s. She left him to marry my dad, though they remained friends. When I was not fat, I presented his runway collection with my brother when we were little. So, technically, I too have been a model.

When I was growing up, I would lie on my parent’s bed, and she would parade what she’d designed: her denim pant-suit, white tee-shirt, and a little pink neck scarf; her navy and white striped dress that looked so good with red espadrilles; an olive jumpsuit that showed off her very thin waist. I couldn’t help but wonder how all of her organs could possibly fit in there.

She would complain about how it was hard to select an outfit with so many great options. I wonder if it ever crossed her mind that my closet offered only one pair of pants that fit: mustard corduroys. They had to be washed at night, so I would have something to wear the next day.

Every change of season, we tried to add a couple of items to my wardrobe; as my weight increased, it became more difficult. I loved the idea of planning our shopping sprees, but hated executing them. Mostly because we always came home empty handed, hardly a spree. Parisian stores made me think we, fat people, didn’t exist; or rather, shouldn’t. No clothing brand carried bigger sizes. It took American business geniuses to eventually figure out that the growing community of obese people couldn’t walk around naked. We started early in the day to increase our advantage, even though we were well aware of the improbability of achieving our goal. Shopping for me was a nightmare for her. For me too.

On that shopping day, I’d forgotten to wash my corduroys the night before. I threw them in the wash, and hovered over the dryer, praying it would beep before Mom stormed in to announce our departure. If the cycle didn’t finish, I would have to wear them damp. Her impatience was infamous; making her wait would increase her already anxious mood by more than I could manage.

Her level of childhood trauma combined with her denial of the effect it was having on her life — and mine — lead to all sorts of undiagnosed disorders, post-traumatic stress, obsessive compulsive, and narcissistic personality, probably being the main ones, as I learned many years later getting my masters in psychology. In our house, we all learned to avoid triggering her anxiety, as there was no telling what she would do to you if you did.

She barged in, looking stunning in the olive outfit. There was such an art to how she put herself together: the jewelry; the coat; the khaki Hermès suede bag that she eventually gifted me. Thirty years later, it still reminds me of that outing; I don’t use it very often.

The dryer beeped, I switched from pajamas to my thank-god-dry pants, faked needing a pit-stop, slurped a finger-lick or two from my secret stash behind the Windex, and met her at the door. Her angst escalated as we got into her chestnut Jag. Eating my Nutella slurps had worked; I felt calmer. We drove without talking, listening to Bartok, the dissonant composer she loved. I did not.

We arrived at one of those trendy-for-rich-teenagers stores on the Champs Elysees, the most visited street in the whole world. Super tall windows displaying emaciated mannequins to ensure we all knew fat was not welcome here. In the reflection of the shop window, I could see a lean blonde beauty walking behind me, enjoying a sandwich. “Not fair. I want one,” I thought. I watched her walk toward a blue BMW. A handsome guy opened the car door for her. “Not fair, I want one of those, too.”

I braced myself, and in we walked. I dragged my feet in tow behind my mom, who was marching like you do when you look as she does. They were playing one of our favorite songs, Joe Dassin’s, “aux Champs Elysees.” It has a line that says “au soleil , sous la pluie, a midi ou a minuit, il y a tout ce que vous voulez, aux Champs Elysees.” In essence: “In any weather, at any time, you can find whatever you’re looking for on the Champs Elysees.”

I took it as a sign. “You can find whatever you’re looking for”--a pair of pants? Maybe Mom would catch the drift and relax a little. She didn’t. She forged ahead, knowing to ignore the smaller trendy stuff in front. 

I loved this pair of paisley pants my thin friend Iris had bought in that very store, to wear to my thin friend Lisa’s fourteenth birthday party. Her family had rented out the whole Jardin d’Acclimatation (think of it as someone shutting down Disneyland for a birthday). Yes, I’d worn my one and only corduroys.

At school, we wore grey skirts with suspenders and ironed white shirts; that uniform normalized us, somewhat. After school, the discrepancy was more obvious. Everyone was rich; status was not measured in francs but kilos. As much as more was better for money, less was better for kilos. To think that there was a time in human history when fat meant opulent and beautiful. Where was I then?

Sadly, being of this century, in which thin is what’s venerated, I had to learn some skills so shame would not keep me in bed all day. For my fragile self-esteem to survive in clothing stores, I’d learned not to look around, avoiding coveting outfits that would inevitably not come in my size. Sometimes I didn’t get my blinders up fast enough, like that day when I walked in, and the very first thing I saw was the paisley pants. Ouch.

A sales creature approached us. Her short skirt exposed her bony knees; I remember thinking, “My arms are bigger than her legs.” Standing between these two models, I took a deep breath, trying to find a shred of confidence.

“She needs pants, size XXL, maybe XXXL,” Mom said to the other skinny with an apology in her eyes, and no empathy whatsoever for she who needed that size; as if we’d made a tacit agreement that being fat was my fault and my problem — therefore, it was not on her to make me feel any better about it.

“Try these,” the clerk said, handing me a pair of black pants with the tip of her fingers, as if my fatness was contagious.

“I sold a pair of these yesterday to an enormous woman from California. If they don’t fit you, I have nothing bigger. But they’ll fit. That Californian woman was huuge,” she said walking me to the dressing room.

The changing room was small, with barely enough space for me to turn around. I removed my mustards and tried on the promising pants. I was so close to the mirror, I couldn’t see myself—not that I would have wanted to. I sat on the cold bench and tried the pants on, but they wouldn’t make it past my knees. I wiggled my fatter-than-the-enormous-Californian-woman butt for a minute or two, desperately trying to make them rise.

Nope. Knee-high, they stopped.

There we were. Me and the pants, stuck at the knees; flooded with shame. Shame on me. Mean of her. Fuck the pants. Fuck the skinny lady. And my skinny mom for bringing me there. I don’t really need pants.

Dead girl walking out of the dressing room. Mom knew; I could see it in her eyes. Her humiliation was bigger than mine. She couldn’t look at me. I had to get back on my feet. Ignore my embarrassment. Let go of my feelings. Manage hers. Say something to help her save face and leave without making her shame public.

“I don’t like the color,” I said, putting on her oxygen mask before mine. She trained me well.

She turned around and headed toward the shoe department. Shoes are good for fat girls. Maybe we could buy some of those.

As we were walking out, she started talking about something that had nothing to do with anything — pretending that what had just happened, hadn’t. At first, her comments were mostly neutral. She read a few billboards out loud: “Coca-Cola un sourire. Chanel, mademoiselle.”

Then she went for my jugular.

“It’s much easier to shop for your brother.”

Sure, I could see that. My brother was thin - and perfect.

My mother used her sewing skills to make herself clothes she loved; she could have made me a pair of paisley pants. But I didn’t ask, and she didn’t offer. It was my battle. And one I had to face alone. Apparently.

I wore my corduroys every day for another few months, until our family took a trip to California when I was fifteen. In California, they had stores for fat girls. We’d heard of Lane Bryant from an enormous French friend who’d found jeans her size the previous summer. My father and brother came along, waiting on the bench outside. I marched in first this time, mom in tow. From the mannequins with meat on their bones in the windows — I wondered if they had to custom-make them — I could tell this was going to be a proper shopping spree. 

Being in a store for curvy people — that’s what they call us here — was poignant. Like when you realize you’ve been in an abusive relationship, and you finally get out of it. I’d taken the abuse without understanding that’s what it was. In that store, and maybe all of California, fat was welcomed. In that alternative universe, where giant posters of fat women laughing in bathing suits covered the walls, I would go so far as to say that fat seemed celebrated.

Everything was oversized to accommodate my kind: aisles were wider, hangers broader, even carts were larger. And the sales person who greeted us clearly bought her clothes in this store. I had to strategize how I would navigate the store so as not to miss anything. I was only allowed eight pieces at a time in the dressing room. Eight pieces? I’d never visited a planet where I found — let alone liked — eight pieces. E.v.e.r.

I can’t remember how many times I went back to get the next eight, but many. For the first time in my fat life, I tried on pants that were too big.

“Can you bring me a smaller size, please?” I asked the friendly, curvy clerk. Speaking those words was so delicious; water, after a very, very long walk in the desert.

Mom was into it; she kept bringing me more pieces to try on, while I sat on a big-ass bench, in a big-ass dressing room, with a big-ass mirror, in which I could actually see all of my big ass. The third outfit we put together started with olive green overalls that resembled hers. They looked good on me.

“How about with this belt?” my mom yelled out from the other side of the store, clearly having fun shopping and being a mom to me; given fashion choices in my size, she made me look really cute.

“Would you like to try these on?” the clerk asked, handing me a pair of paisley pants.

I’m sure the clerk had no idea why I burst into tears. Of all the fabrics in all of the world — really? Paisley? It was as if the universe had hugged me.

My dad and brother had waited while I tried on virtually the entire store; eight items at a time. Accustomed to buying whatever I could squeeze into, I overdid it, buying what I liked.

“Miss, you forgot your corduroys in the dressing room,” the clerk said running after us in the mall.

I paused and said, “I’m good. I don’t need them anymore”

I smiled and walked away in my new paisleys.