My Personal Essay and Blogs I Love.

Below, please find links to two blogs that I read all the time. The first happens to pertain to my life completely--eight senior journalism students blog about the vast unknown after graduation. Oh wait, that's the same thing that makes me want to vomit everyday!

The second is a blog that I honestly read religiously. I know, its celebrity smut, but I chose to embrace rather than reject completely. Besides, criticizing people's clothing choices is one of my favorite pastimes with my friends and these women write really well. They crack me up.

http://thegraduates.blogs.nytimes.com/


http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/

Also, below, please find the first draft of my personal essay. No caveats--I don't believe in denigrating my own work, unless its constructive.


Skinny Is In, Even Amongst the Amish

By Lauren Trager

I can’t seem to lose my “Amish weight.” Surrounded by soft pretzels (Auntie Anne was Amish, after all), shoo fly pie, and other delicacies, I packed on poundage while immersing myself in Lancaster County last summer.
Interested in Amish life since the age of seven, I wanted to live with Amish people as my college senior thesis-- essentially, I completed an exercise in immersion journalism during which I mimicked the lifestyle of an Amish woman my age. Before I left, I studied Amish lifestyles and spoke with several leading researchers on what to expect. I struggled to find a family that would host me and after multiple refusals, I finally found one. Ultimately, as I gained trust in the community, I lived with three families over a period of five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family told me they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived, but only after I sent them pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long enough and that I would fit in as an Amish girl. Before I left, I packed only a few conservative tops and skirts, threw out my razor blades and deodorant and prepared to live “the simple life.”
Immediately after pulling up to the brick farmhouse at the Lapp Valley Dairy Farm, my host mom, Lena, greeted me at the screen door with a smile and a long head-to-toe look. In her living room during our first conversation, she launched into what I would normally deem a misogynist rant.
“I don’t know why girls are surprised about getting themselves into trouble these days with the way they dress,” Lena said. “Its no wonder boys are lusting.”
Her slight frame and little gray hair made me want to believe her. Desiring to show the highest respect and regard, I suddenly felt ashamed; my white tee-shirt felt too tight, my calf-length skirt too short. I couldn’t wait to put on Amish clothes.
My new family owned a booming ice cream business catering to tourists. I eventually learned every step in the ice cream process from milking to making. And eating. On the first night I arrived, the Lapps put me to work in the store and told me to help myself to ice cream. I took their invitation and after the first bite of the most creamy concoction I had ever tasted, I took the invitation every day thereafter.
I like my body. From the age of two, I could move furniture around the house. I’m what some would call “big-boned” and strong. I’m captain of the college softball team and I take pride that no one can out bench me.
Amish girls, too, consciously carry themselves. But accustomed to harder labor, most are quite fit; you’d be hard pressed to find an obese Amish person anywhere.
So finding dresses to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena rummaged through a closet of old dresses for me to try.
“These are Ester’s,” she said. “She’s a bigger girl, like you.” Ester apparently didn’t need them anymore; she now worked in an orphanage in Romania. But even in her absence, I felt a kindred spirit in Ester. We both knew a hard truth-- skinny is in everywhere, even with the Amish.
Sarah Lynn, one of my host sisters at the last family I stayed with, could have been my twin in age and looks. We bonded from the very beginning and she became my guide and friend. I traveled with her to school (she’s been a schoolteacher for five years) and to social gatherings. We gossiped about boys, chatted about current events and clothes. She informed me that earth tones were in for the fall.
She worried about her weight. Restricting herself to a low-carb diet, she tried to completely eliminate bread from her palate. At meal times, she took tiny portions as I sheepishly heaped my plate with the boys, starving from a long day far more active than sitting in front of a computer screen. She also sighed heavily when adjusting the buttons on the front of my dress when they gaped from ill-fitting. Sarah Lynn stared in disbelief when, as a special treat, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her and her sister. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away,” They were.
I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts and gravy set before me at the family dinner table. Meal times were certainly my favorite, though often the fare included pizza and frozen chicken nuggets. In the heat of Pennsylvania summer, food felt familiar and tasted better than ever.
On one of my last days, I decided to host a dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to fail, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa because I knew every one would like it. For flair, I threw in one of my mother’s staple dishes—Mediterranean pasta salad with spinach, feta, artichoke hearts and olives.
“What’s this, spagehetti?” Davey, the man I grown to love as my own grandfather asked me.
“It is very good,” he said to me, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.