The sight of Mt. Fuji filled me with dread.  It was going to be another fat-shaming experience in the Land of the Rising Sun and the Small Bottoms.  ‘

My husband pretended not to notice that, with the exception of Sumo wrestlers, I was the broadest-beamed ninjen in all of Japan.  In two weeks, I could count on one hand the number of Japanese who looked like, well, me when they walked away.

Why are the Japanese so trim?  First, they eat with sticks instead of shovels. And though they eat a lot of rice, they also eat lots of fish, raw fish, fish without beer batter and Big Boy’s tartar sauce.  And while it’s not uncommon to be served 42 little dishes of food at one meal, one dish might contain an orange slice, another a grape, and another, beans.  And by beans, I mean two.

They’re lovely people, the Japanese,  but still they made me feel fat me every one of the fourteen days I was there.  First, there was the bus for our tour group.  The seats were designed for scrawny Asian butts, not prodigious American ones.  I always chose a seat on the aisle, where I could allow dimpled cheek to lap over the side.

My husband spotted this at a sculpture park . . . he thought it looked familiar.

Japanese are rule followers, so every time we got on the bus, our guide, Chisako, reminded us to buckle our seat belts. Little seat belts, like the ones for kids in grocery carts.  For the first couple days, I stretched that tourniquet across tubby tummy. When I buckled it, I felt like the magician sawed me in half.  I finally decided to forego the seat belt, to be a free-range Yank.  Just let their cops try to arrest me.  I’d never fit in their handcuffs.

When we arrived at our Hakone hotel, Chisako, our guide, shepherded her sixteen Gaijin into the lobby where she was going to teach us how to dress.  And undress.

Chisako

Our hotel supplied traditional clothing for its guests;  we would each find a yukata, obi, tabi, and geta on the bed. A yukata is a bathrobe affair which, to my mind, is perfect attire for makeup application, gray root restoration, Facebook perusal, and toenail clipping. There is no zipper or Velcro on a yakata, so you tie it up with an obi sash.  Tabi are mitten-like socks to wear with geta, sandals with lifts.

Oh, awesome! I thought.  Swag!  Now I won’t have to buy a souvenir for my hairdresser.

Chisako had different ideas. She selected the most petite woman in our group to model the ensemble. There was much draping and overlapping and pleating of the yukata before Chisako secured the origami outfit with the obi.

Then, it hit me:  Holy Hijikata!  Chisako expected me to wear this get up!

“You will wear your yukata to the hot spring baths and dinner.  You don’t have to wear anything under your yukata, but if you’d feel more comfortable, you can wear underthings and a t-shirt.”  She said this with a lilt that implied, “Silly Yankees.”

“When you go to the baths, you will remove your clothing and receive a towel.”

Fifteen tourists nodded dutifully, like the good students of culture they were.  Not one asked the obvious: “How big is the towel?”

Chisako continued as if she were detailing opera etiquette.  “You will sit down on a stool, lather and rinse your body, walk to the pool, then slip into the hot water.  It’s spiritual. You will make friends.”  Nobody asked, “What happened to the towel?”

“If you are lucky, you will see our sacred Fujisan.”

Yeah, I thought.  You’ll see some  mounds, alright.

“You know you don’t have to do it,” whispered my husband in that cunning way that spouses do.  He didn’t want to do it, either.  He was none to eager to dangle his ginsu knife in the community pool.

“One Size Fits All” is a global lie.  My yukata didn’t drape; it gaped.

With the gait of a geisha, I minced my way to the front desk.  “Do you have a bigger . . .”  The woman at the desk blinked and blushed, and before I could finish my sentence she disappeared through a door that apparently led to the the plus sizes.  She came back with another yukata.

Now that was easy, I thought, but when I tried on the yukata, it was exactly the size of the first.  And the size was “Toddler.”

Fortunately, my Boy Scout spouse had one of those matchbook-size sewing kits that he had been dragging around since we too our kids to Disneyworld.  Yes, it does pay to be prepared.

By the time I sewed the front together at strategic points, I missed the naked bathing.

I sashayed into the dining room in my yukata . . . and Spanx.  When I sat, my wardrobe did not malfunction nor trigger an international incident.

I ate just one of my beans. When you’ve outgrown an entire country, it’s time to cut down.

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