There is an international boarding/day school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo known for its strict and rigid rules. A decent number of alumnae live in Tokyo still, and every now and then a group of us get together to reminisce. This walk down memory lane usually gets tawdry very quickly, the telling of stories causing gut-, and side-splitting laughter; the restaurant we're at on any given night almost always regrets letting us in.
Last night was one such night.
Quite a sight, we are. I am the lone woman who goes to these evenings out--the consensus being I'm the only one who can handle the abuse and stories of completely inappropriate behavior from days long past--a compliment, I know, albeit cloaked. It's a good thing I can dish out similar libel, have thick skin and stories of my own, many of which include embarrassing moments my friends' memory has conveniently erased.
Our teachers would be surprised by the lives we lead today. Collectively, our reputations and grades would have led most to assume none of us would end up this successful. Proud of our accomplishments, we toast our teachers for being wrong. Very wrong.
As we made our way out of one eatery to another, over-staying our welcome at the first place, we walk down stairs leading into what can only be described as a present-day dungeon sans the torture tools. There are no chairs here. It's dark, cramped, and as we file past those already standing with their food and drinks, we all mutter our "excuse me"s pushing up against the already imprisoned. The hallway is that narrow and that tight. This place is small. Lamps hanging on the walls offer little light, and monsters and dragons could very easily poke their heads around any given corner. I feel like I'm in 13th century France. We file into the corner booth arguing over how much space my purse takes up, who stands where, who's claustrophobic. And here it begins. The Japanese man standing closest to us, clearly wanting to hang out with the "cool kids" comments on the height of one of the gang. Again. And again.
Which gets me thinking. We are a hodge-podge of sizes. There's the really tall one, the tall and thick one, the short and stocky one, and the medium-height thin one. And then me. We represent all sizes, makes and models.
I ponder this for a moment. Comments about height and weight fly out of the mouths of most Japanese I know with seemingly remarkable ease. There is typically some discussion of my weight when I get together with those who haven't seen me for a month. I've either lost weight or gained. A discussion ensues among those who have opinions on my weight. I'm usually not a part of these chats that take place as if I was invisible and unable to hear the result of the general consensus. Fascinating.
No one I know back home would dare, ever comment on my weight, but here in Japan it seems to be a free-for-all topic. I ponder this, too. Casting aside judgment on why it's okay to comment on peoples' weight here in Japan, I instead think about how the Japanese have changed.
I am no longer the tallest or heaviest woman I know in Japan. Anywhere I go, I'm surrounded by women who are larger than me. Growing up here, for the most part, this was never the case. While in the US, I am shorter than the average woman and "normal" in weight, here in Japan, I've always been tall and borderline heavy. Today there are plenty of women who are taller (even without the four-inch heels) and who show the results of a diet rich in meat and milk. Japanese bodies are changing.
And then there are the men. Talk show hosts in Japan can often be heard discussing how young Japanese men prefer to remain single, living at home and interacting with the virtual world more than the real one, content to eat their mother's cooking. Relationships? Too bothersome. Jobs? Meh.
There is another crop of young men in Japan many find just as troubling: the beautiful ones. Arched and plucked eyebrows, coiffed hair full of product and seriously styled, clothes that make us all wonder who's credit card is being used, these men are elegant, beautiful, and thin. Called "the vegetarians" for their--what?--lack of interest in anything hearty? For the most part, boys don't grow up wanting to emulate this subculture of young men who personify nothing masculine.
The fifteen days of sumo, the summer bout, which ended on Sunday shows the exact opposite. Men meant to be large show off their strength and skill as they collide into each other. Here, too, their weight and size is a topic of discussion. Even in the world of sumo, the ultimate in sports where size matters there is evidently something to being too heavy. I continue to marvel at how "appropriate" size is defined.
In a world where size continually matters, where we are all but defined by our height and weight, and in a country where comments about both fly out of mouths way too quickly I wonder what lies ahead for the new Japan. Beautiful but seemingly weak men, women who are taller and larger than their mothers, and the ongoing commentary on observations regarding the size of gaijins (myself included) all make for interesting material for those inadvertently embroiled in the discussion over how size matters.
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