Skinny Is In, Even With the Amish- Final Personal Essay

Skinny Is In, Even With the Amish

By Lauren Trager

I rummaged through my car, slipping my hand between the seats, digging for change. I needed a soft pretzel and I needed it now. I could taste the slightly sweet and suddenly salty morsel in my mouth and I trembled with anticipation. Must Have Pretzel.

Overall, I like my body. I’m strong and toned; from the age of two, I could move furniture around and as captain of the college women’s softball team, I can out-bench anyone.
But when I lived in an Amish community for my senior thesis last summer, I packed on poundage. Auntie Anne was once Amish, after all.
I wanted to see what it was like to live as an Amish woman. I studied Amish life and spoke with leading researchers, but I had to experience it. Despite difficulties, I found one family who agreed to host me. Ultimately, I lived with three families over five weeks.
Packing for my trip proved consternating; pleased and surprised that I wanted to dress like them, my host family said that they would provide the traditional dresses and head coverings when I arrived-- but only after I sent pictures of myself to confirm that my hair was long and that I would fit in. Before I left, I packed 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 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, gray hair and charming smile contradicted her statements. 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 an ice cream business catering to tourists. I 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. And after the first bite of the creamiest concoction I have ever tasted, I took the invitation every day.

No woman is immune to issues of body. Amish girls consciously carry themselves, wanting to look good and fit in. But accustomed to harder labor and outdoor recreation, most are quite fit; few Amish are overweight.
So finding clothes to fit me wasn’t easy. Lena’s dresses were too small, so we walked over a neighbor’s house and borrowed maternity clothes—they were big enough. 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 did mission work 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 refused to eat bread. She took tiny portions as I heaped my plate with her brothers, starved from active work. She’d sigh heavily when adjusting the gaping buttons on my ill-fitting dress. She even stared in disbelief when, at my request, we went to Yoder’s, a local buffet restaurant.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I said to her, up again for my third helping. “You’ll be surprised by how much I can pack away.” She was. I suddenly felt fat and frumpy in my dress and apron.
But meal times with my Amish families delighted me; we’d chat, pray, sing and laugh. Though I missed sushi and poked at the turkey hearts set before me, we also ate 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 make dinner for the nearly fifty people that had been involved in my journey over the past five weeks. Terrified to mess up, I scrutinized my menu, deciding upon sauerkraut and kielbasa, a traditional Amish dish. 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?” asked Davey, the grandfather figure I’d grown to love. “Yum, it is very good,” he replied, a long noodle slipping up into his mouth as he patted me on the back. I felt so proud.
Now I must run to lose my “Amish” weight. But I still crave those damn pretzels.