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When the terror of trial rooms becomes body image affirmation

They’re called Trial Rooms here, and there’s probably never been a more accurate adjective for them.

{Whoever calls them fitting rooms is lying. Nothing fits in there.}

Trial room is appropriate. You step in and judgement reigns.

The first time I experienced Indian trial rooms was three years ago. I was shopping with my then-boyfriend (who I’d been dating for about a year) and his sister and mom (who I’d met three days prior).

I learned then how trial rooms work.

You are not judging yourself on a quick trip to Ross on your lunch break, texting your friend from the bowels of isolation to lament the reflection staring back at you in the wall-to-wall mirrors, then slinking away, eyes down, past the loss prevention officer posted at the front door.

Instead, you have slogged through traffic and air pollution on a singular mission where failure is not an option because WHEN ELSE ARE YOU JOINING THE FRANTIC FRAY and why would anyone willingly subject themselves to it multiple days in a week?

No.

Here, you cannot leave empty-handed. Here, you cannot walk away defeated.

Here, you armor yourself – emotionally and mentally for jeans shopping, shorts shopping, formal-wear shopping, beach shopping, Indian-clothes shopping ALL IN THE SAME TRIP because this.is.your.chance.

Here, you have a host of people waiting outside the trial room to offer their critiques because shopping here (from my experience) involves at least one (most often two) store attendants, and your shopping partners (in my case, husband and sometimes MIL and SIL).

Three years ago, this was terrifying.

Present day, I embrace it. Mostly it helps that I know what’s coming.

It sometimes begins with my husband and/or MIL asking:

“Do you have this in her size?”

Whatever size I was in the States doesn’t translate here, and when I’m shopping for Indian clothes, the fit is different than what I’m used to.

I get a cursory look by the store attendant. I used to shrink internally. I don’t anymore. This is my body. It’s done miraculous things.

After the Glance, the attendant starts finding my size and not discreetly.

“X-L,” they’ll say in a normal, inside voice, but I’m used to mumbling it. Often it’s “Double X-L.” If it’s a real horror show, the words “Triple X-L” will roll off their tongue and my brain automatically defends our entity left and right. It’s probably just this brand.

Depending on the store, the attendant will assure me that alterations can be made. Usually it’s the words “let it out” and never “take it in” and nine times out of 10, it’s in reference to my bulging chest because just when you think your boobs can’t possibly be bigger, you get pregnant, have a kid and start breastfeeding. I am often left with the impression that out of the 1.3 billion people who live in this country, my boobs are the biggest.

Once, recently, I exited the trial room totally defeated.

“What happened?”

It’s as if he knows the lifetime that can be lived within that stall. {This guy is in it with me.}

“I can’t get it past my calves.”

My CALVES. Of all the things on my body that gives me trial room grief, it’s never been my calves. This was a whole new low.

So there was a flurry of activity as the store attendants passed the news along the line: she can’t get these up past her calves … bigger size, bigger size. And they’re bringing me bigger sizes and in the meantime I realize that a substantial amount of the fabric on the bottom of these bottoms is supposed to bunch at your ankles and is therefore not supposed to go past your calves.

There’s never been more sweet relief.

In the course of these trial room therapy sessions with myself, my body-appreciation has deepened. Sure, I could be self-loathing, but there’s enough of that in the privacy of my own room. Avoiding the Trial Rooms isn’t an option. NOT shopping won’t work.

So I go boldly and bravely. And, dare I say, I’m having fun. I’m trying on new styles (“This makes me feel AWESOME!”), and Indian-designer clothes (Ritu Kumar!). My rate of success is pretty high, and my wardrobe is diverse, colorful, comfortable and fun. So, who’s in for a shopping trip?

Published in Living in India

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