The Dressing Room
I followed my mother around the side of the multi-family townhouse and almost slipped on the narrow, icy steps leading to the basement shop. Steadying myself, I entered a store that was almost certainly “off the books”. Racks of robes and lingerie were everywhere and crammed into an unbelievably small space. Chasidic women and teenage girls chatted and haggled, phones rang, and plastic wrapped robes rustled as women brushed by.
“Do you need something?” a large Chasidic woman asked my mother in heavily accented English. A tape measure was draped around her fleshy neck. There was no nametag, but it was clear that she worked there.
“Well, my daughter Leeba needs new bras,” my mother said matter-of-factly.
I blushed deep red. I was a Bais Yaakov girl and not used to hearing lingerie talked about openly.
“Good. What size is she?”
I felt like saying, “Hello, I’m fifteen. I’m not a child – you can ask me.” But the whole experience was intimidating, and I couldn’t muster the courage to speak.
“Approximately a B, but she should be measured.”
I looked around hoping that no one was listening to the conversation about my cup size. I was relieved to find that no one seemed to have noticed. Before I knew it, my mother was off to find some shabbos robes, and I was ushered into a make-shift dressing room where the curtain was too inadequate to offer even the illusion of privacy. Turning around, I removed my shirt. Imma was right, I thought, looking down at my bra. This thing’s getting old.
Cold hands touched my back and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A tape measure was snug around my breasts before I had a chance to figure out what was happening, and then it was over. Humiliated and feeling somewhat violated, I put my shirt back on and turned around.
A girl who looked to be a few years older than me was removing her frumpy Chasidic clothing in a dressing room across from mine. Underneath it all, she was surprisingly pretty. I watched her put on a lacy white bra and matching panties that perfectly augmented her slender body. If not for the chin length, pin straight hair and obvious lack of makeup I would have almost mistaken her for a Victoria’s Secret model.
The lady with the frigid hands and brusque manner was back. “Which do you want?” she asked me, showing me two equally drab beige bras that were apparently my size.
“Can I have what she’s wearing?” I pointed at the girl in the lacy white finery.
“She’s a kallah,” the lady scowled.
I had obviously said something wrong.
“I’ll try those.” I said, taking the beige bras from her, more in an effort to get her to go away than anything else.
As I tried on the bras, which fit well but did not excite me, I couldn’t help thinking: All those years I’d thought Chasidic women were basically asexual. It was hard to avoid that impression considering their loose, unfashionable clothes, shpitzels, and thick, seamed stockings.
This girl was so pretty underneath the trappings of religiosity. Did she know it? Was she buying her lingerie exclusively for her soon-to-be husband, or was this her sexual debut too? I felt that sexy lingerie was empowering, and I was sure that if I could get some of my own I’d feel beautiful no matter what I was wearing over it.
But now I had to consider the possibility that this girl might not see it the same way. To me, wearing sexy lingerie would feel liberating because it would be my choice. But how is sexy lingerie any different than regular clothing if it’s what you’re supposed to wear? She undoubtedly had worn a uniform while in school, weekday clothes during the week, shabbos clothes on shabbos, and perhaps a gown to a relative’s wedding.
For a kallah, there were new uniforms: a white wedding gown and matching lingerie for the sex that followed. All of it was prescribed, part of a script. All this girl had to do was play a role. Where were the choices? Did she even really know the man who would soon be her husband?
I felt nauseous, and decided that the bras would do. I got dressed and found my mother among the shabbos robes. We paid with a check made out to “Cash”, and made our way back up the slippery, narrow steps.
Printable Version
HT, I got you and my response should have answered your not so blunt question. I am a Psychology major.
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Brother, I kinda knew you were a psyche major. I recognize my peoples.
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If my writting reflects psychology it would be extremely troublesome to me. I don’t believe in psychology and I don’t aspire to be a psychologist. I used psychology only as a means to advance my carrer. You were really able to tell from my comments here that I dabbled some in psychology?
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You don’t believe in psychology? You the one who puts those Scientology posts on unpious?
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You don’t “believe” in psychology? You don’t believe in the study of the mind?
Your B F Skinner comment gave you away.
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Lemme rephrase. That’s a loaded phrase. I don’t believe in psychology as a discipline and definetley not as a science.
Me scientology?
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There were a few ads for them up above. Joke.
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I don’t believe in psychology as a discipline and definetley not as a science.
We are on the same page then.
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I think Tzippi is right on this one. You can explain to an 11 year old that somethings wear just for self-admiration, and eventhough she might not understand it, she is able to understand that other or older people look at it that way. It’s not like you’re buying the nice lingerie for her so you need to explain to her why she should wear it. And it also gives her a good perspective about the world for when she grows up.
On the other hand, if you tell her I don’t know, she might not believe you or accept it. It’s too much of a simple thing not to know the answer to. The girl knows that her mother is into clothing, like every woman is. And saying people have ‘meshigasen’ is even worse, because it gives her a wrong sense of the world-that It’s wrong to wear sexy lingerie-something that she might stay with when she gets older.
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And saying people have ‘meshigasen’ is even worse, because it gives her a wrong sense of the world-that It’s wrong to wear sexy lingerie-something that she might stay with when she gets older.
Using your line of thinking, I’m surprised most adults want to have sex, considering the warped views most of us had as kids when we first started hearing about the birds and bees.
I’m also surprised that you dont believe in the tooth fairy,that mami buys a baby in the hospital, Santa, and that if you bite your nails,a nail tree will grow in your belly.
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In response to Just A Guy, I’m sorry you feel that way. Fifteen was an odd age for me. I was struggling with a lot of different things – not the least of which was my developing body and whether I should be proud or ashamed of it. At that age I read a lot about girls from other cultures, particularly Arab ones, and the kallah I saw struck a cord. My inner dialogue certainly took longer and more confused than I described in the piece. I guess condensing it made it look somewhat contrived. Thank you for the critique.
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Hoezen T,
The things you mentioned are things that we realize when we get older that it doesn’t make sense (sex is a different story). But telling a young girl that wearing sexy lingerie is a ‘neshigaas’ she might think that way even when she gets married especially when there probably are people who think so.
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This is so well written. Thanks for sharing, I really enjoyed it.
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This piece has not the slightest bit of verisimilitude to it and is as cliched as a mishpacha piece except that mishpacha prefers not to dwell on that part of the anatomy.
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To the “women should dress beautifully all the time” posters…
If they want to. If it makes them happy. Too often it’s just a way of preying on their insecurities in order to make a buck. And the wonderful thing is, other women enforce it through vicious peer pressure which men can scarcely fathom.
The pressure to be “beautiful” can easily become pathological. For the most part it’s another commodification of women’s sexuality, a way to turn it into profits without actually delivering an orgasm. Slathering a layer of spackle and paint onto healthy skin all the time. Obsession with invisible signs that you aren’t seventeen. Foot surgery to accent the “toe cleavage”. New clothes every season whether you want them or not. Uncomfortable shoes that damage your spine and feet just so your arse will stick out properly and your legs will seem a little longer.
My wife entered Oil of Olay’s Beauty Secrets contest some time back. The fact that she did not win I can only ascribe to a Post Office malfunction. Her tip? Don’t smoke. Never wear makeup, and have at least one Chinese grandparent. So far it’s worked for her. People think she’s about fifteen years less than her actual age, and younger guys still look.
Oh yes, when we got married she wanted to get a set of women’s dress shoes. We went to a prestigious store. The salesman looked at her feet and saw she was wearing tennis shoes. He asked “Do you wear those all the time? I’m sorry. There’s nothing in this store I can sell you.” Her feet hadn’t been systematically deformed by forcing them into a hoof.
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