 letters from japan by michelle Godzilla was a misunderstood foreigner. Upon arriving in a foreign country for the first time, something we all enjoy doing is pointing out the obvious differences. "In Japan, they eat with chopsticks and have game shows where contestants are mercilessly mocked and hit in the face with cream pies." Being an American in the Land of the Rising Sun, I am certainly no different. One thing I find different and pretty consistently interesting is the relative size of things in Japan compared to America. Nothing in Japan is big, at least not to American standards. America, the Texas of the planet, has probably the biggest everything in the world. But to the Japanese, bigger doesn't necessarily mean better. When you live in a country the same size as California that has a population 4 times greater than that of the Golden State, smaller is definitely smarter. From the bite-sized hot lunches I enjoy* everyday at school, to the boxy, toy cars that resemble overgrown mailboxes in the winding streets of my neighborhood, the Japanese embrace all things small. (*Please see refer to former article on Kyushoku to further understand the various states of 'enjoyment' I get from eating school lunch.) Having lived in Japan for six months, embracing everything small now comes relatively easy for me barring one rather large arena; clothing. Shopping has become an exercise in patience. No longer can I charge into a store and ask to try on those fabulous leather boots in the window that I'd been eyeing for months. Any shopkeeper will almost burst into hysterics when I tell her my shoe size. Trying on a skirt or a pair of pants is completely fruitless as my efforts are almost always thwarted by my hips. Occasionally, I can squeeze into a T-shirt or button-down, but it must be a large, or else I'm afraid my arms and face will turn blue Willy Wonka style. I actually own a few Japanese shirts that already have holes in them thanks to my destructive, Western arms. Recently, I got a boyfriend, so naturally, the first thing I wanted to do was go out and buy a whole new assortment of lacy undergarments. I thought myself to be comparable to a Japanese girl in the bra department, so I figured the whole thing would be no sweat, and my boyfriend would be thoroughly impressed with my good taste. However, what I thought would be a relatively easy task, became an experiment in humiliation. I tried on the first bra, a frilly, dark blue number with light blue flowers trimming the edges, and for the first time in my life, I felt stacked. It was kind of nice, feeling big for a change. Like Mae West - in her teen years maybe. Not just stacked, but a bit squashed. A little like flattened donuts. But that was just the first bra, and there was more padding in it than a locker room at the Superbowl. Less padding, bigger size, that's what I needed. Next, I tried on a pink lacy bra that left red lines around my ribcage. Then there was the yellow one with about the same effect. I continually asked for bigger sizes with less padding, but nothing seemed to help. Knocking my knees and elbows around inside the tiny changing room, I finally heard a ripping sound. And there you have it, I thought. I was a seam-tearing She-Hulk. But I couldn't give up just yet. I tried on two more black bras and another blue. After squashing everything I could into the last slingshot of a bra, I realized that we would never reach a mutual understanding, these bras and I. The salesgirl informed me (through gestures) that beyond this latest effort, the only hope for me resided somewhere in the back of the store. I peered around my curtain wall, past the racks of pastel lycra, and flowery spandex that sometimes look more like Christmas decorations than bras, to the dark corner of the shop, where bras that pre-dated the first World War were hung. These weren't bras, they weren't even brassieres. They were flesh suits for Mrs. Doubtfire. Every one of them was the same beige color, and they all seemed to cry out in Queen's English, "More tea, mum?" They were all more humiliating than I could stand. I tried squeezing into the one last bra before all hope faded and I left the store, uninspired. If breathing were only optional, I thought. I started to think, am I being punished for previous bad shopping karma? Wearing an outfit once and returning it the next day? Everyone does that, right? Now, for those kind readers who are thinking, "Well, she must be a 'bigger' girl. I bet I could wear clothes in Japan." Let me assure you that it's a no-go, unless you are on the Girls' Olympic Gymnastic Team. Those readers who know me, know that I am a slim girl, who is only slightly taller than average. "Average", meaning the "western" average. In Japan, I am as tall, and sometimes much taller, than most men, and I loom over most of my students like Notre Dame. When I teach, I sometimes stroll down the rows of desks, and knock just about every student's pencil case, notebook, etc. onto the floor. It seems that I can't turn around without crashing into something and creating a disturbance of some kind. I sometimes imagine myself as an enormous monster, stomping through the roof of the Guggenheim, punching holes in the Chrysler Building, destroying everything in my path. I bet that's why Godzilla was so angry. He just couldn't find a decent pair of pants that fit. So lately it seems that I have no choice in the matter; I can remain a mutant with a seriously pathetic wardrobe, or take matters into my own hands. And so I have decided. No longer will I stand idle and take what the world hands me. I have choices. I have the power to make myself fit into this world, one way or another. And I will do it. With a little help from the fairy godmothers of internet shopping. I hope Victoria's Secret delivers to Japan. |
Mysteries of Japan Part Two: Climate Control (The Absence of) Mysteries of Japan Part One: Obaachans Godzilla Was a Misunderstood Foreigner School Lunch, or, Why I Carry Candy and Gum in My Handbag What's in a name? The Shochu Monster Airmail! Intro Find out more about the JET Programme
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