* Edited By Zisi Naimark

It was one of those crazed Friday afternoons.

I knew I had to push myself. I’d been waiting weeks, and I could do this. I took a few deep breaths. My husband wished me well as I left.

There was parking a few blocks away (as expected), and I braced myself for what was to come.

The sidewalk sales.

Survival of the fittest.

Or survival of the richest? Skinniest? Not sure.

Anyway, I walked into a store and found my rack. The $10 rack.

I sought an empty dressing room. None available. Peeking into a back room, I found a bunch of women chattering. That seemed to be the communal dressing room, Loehmann’s style.

All I had were two skirts from the $10 rack and one wrap shirt that for some reason was all the rage that summer. (The shirt was only 20% off) I found a tiny corner in the back room, and when it was my turn, I wiggled my way to the mirror. My turn took a back seat to the kallah who was not holding a $10 skirt. Let’s just say that each one of her items looked more expensive than all of mine together.

These days, my clothing policy is: If you don’t love it, don’t buy it. Who cares if it’s $10? If it’s not the right choice, then that’s $10 down the drain. At the time, though, I was agonizing over the sale skirts. I wanted to look good, but more than that, I wanted to have what everyone else had. Shopping is painful if you aren’t skinny or visibly rich, and when you are neither, you just don’t get treated the same. It’s sad.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mother and daughter duo. They were trying on clothing together, helping each other find their sizes, and/or complimenting each other. They were having fun.

The little things in life, I thought. Shopping with your mom at a sidewalk sale on a Friday afternoon. Why stress about Shabbos when you’re with your mother, and you know she’ll be there to take you out for lunch or help you cook?

I recognized the mother at the sale with her daughter. She had grown up with my mom. I reintroduced myself, reminding this woman (let’s call her Sara) that I was Sharon’s daughter. She smiled and laughed and told me how much she had loved my mother, who had been the life of the party and really good at machanayim.

Both women were warm. They welcomed me into their little circle, and together we played “Say yes to the $10 skirt.”

I went out on a limb and told them a story. “Years ago, I was out with my mother and we saw you. I knew that you had grown up together, so I said to my mom, ‘Look, it’s your friend Sara. Go say hi.’

“But my mother, the life of the party, hid behind a clothing rack.

“Baffled, I whispered, ‘Ma! What are you doing?!’

“She whispered back, ‘I can’t let her see me. I’ve gotten too fat.’”

Bam. There was the horribly familiar feeling, thinking that people were looking at us and judging. Once again, my mother’s size seemed to dictate how she engaged with the world and people in it.

I was young at the time of this story, maybe 20. I didn’t think about it again until years later, when I saw Sara. She reminded me of my mother. But she also reminded me of my conviction: I will never allow that story to unfold again.

Now, my mother’s body is gone. When I think about her, I don’t wish she had been skinnier. I don’t think anyone who knew her thinks or wishes that. I don’t remember any mention about her heaviness at her funeral.

These days, I empathize with my mother, because I’ve felt the same feelings. Probably the worst thing someone can say is, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you.” Is our worth really tied to the way we look? It is not. But there is some sort of smoke screen edged in our brains that we can’t seem to shake.

Maybe I can erase that image, because my mother’s body is gone.

Her fatness is gone.

Her smile is gone.

Her laugh is gone.

Her shopping with me is gone. And Shabbos cooking. And machanayim talent.

And none of those things had anything to do with her worth.

I finally got on the line with my two $10 skirts. Sara was on a parallel line, and I told her how good it had been to see her.

She came over and handed the woman behind the counter $10. She kissed my cheek and said, “This is from your mother.”

And suddenly, amid the press of bodies and the frazzled Erev Shabbos shoppers, I felt my mother right there next to me. Her smile. Her laugh. Her warmth and her love. Sara gave me back my mother for a moment, a moment that had nothing to do with the way I look, or Sara looks, or my mother looked. Just a $10 skirt and moment of embrace.

Gila Glassberg is a master’s level registered dietitian and a certified intuitive eating counselor. As a teenager, she was faced with constant diet talk, body shaming and obsessive guilt around food. This led to years of struggling with disordered eating. This is what propelled her into the field of nutrition. Her life’s mission has become to empower girls and women to stop spending excessive time on dieting and the harm it causes. She gives live workshops and runs intuitive eating groups. To work with her, reach out at [email protected] or 570-878-3642.

You can find more of Gila’s interviews, blog posts and information on her website at www.gilaglassberg.com. Follow her on instagram
@gila.glassberg.intuitiveRD.