Off the Rack: Chapter 4 

I stepped on the scale again, just to be sure I was seeing right. Six months post-surgery, I’d already lost nearly 80 pounds. Over the years of fad dieting, this was the fastest I’d ever dropped weight. I thought back to the moments before surgery, when I cried and begged the nurse not to take me into the operating room. Then pushed the memory aside.

Everyone had been right, after all. The surgery was solving all my problems. I’d finally be skinny, a sacred fantasy I’d harbored ever since I was a preteen kid in overnight camp.

Back then, when my parents registered me for camp, I was frightened to choose a size for my camp T-shirt. My friends were deciding between Small and Extra-Small and I was hovering over the order form with my pen jumping from Large to Extra-Large, wondering if even the bigger of the two would fit.

I always chose the large. This way no one would know how big I really was. But the large size was always too small for me, and inevitably, on the first night of camp, I’d stay up late, waiting for the room to turn dark and everyone’s breathing to even out. Casting a jealous eye at my bunkmates’ neatly folded T-shirts on their shelves — already tied with small nots so they’d be more flattering — I’d crawl out of bed and soak my shirt in the bathroom sink. I’d then pull the wet shirt over the back of a chair and let it dry — and stretch out. This way, I could get away wearing only a size Large shirt with no one knowing I really needed bigger.