Take, for instance, yesterday started out as a pleasant afternoon of shopping for an Easter outfit. A bright sunshiny day, the kids were in school, and I had nothing but a couple of hours to myself to enjoy mindless (is there any other way?) perusing of the pastelly, pretty in pink, purple and robin’s egg blue spring fashions. Although, I knew it was out there, somewhere just waiting to pounce – my precarious predicament was lurking like Tom just waiting to make his move on Jerry. Some Freudian types may call this the power of negative thinking, psychological conditioning, or the ever-popular self-fulfilling prophecy. I simply call it foresight (others just call it Karma). Mind you, I really try not to think about it too much because, if I did, I would most assuredly become an agoraphobe and never want to leave the house (sorry, world). Instead, I try to take it all in stride and I figure it’ll just be another adventure to add to my list of perilous shitfests (who says shitfests can’t be fun? – I love saying shitfest, BTW).
Anyhow, at the store, I found a few potential swank (just this side of skank – my husband has to approve because of the church factor) ensembles and headed for the fitting room. Now, because of my recent large weight loss, I have bypassed many sizes and have settled into single-digit sizes (and that is where I will stay, dammit, if it kills me). Therefore, all of the garments I took in with me reflected these sizes. However, all women know that one size can vary greatly across different brands and labels. One size 8 may fit like a 6 or one size 6 may fit like an 8 – that’s why we always have to try things on in like a zillion sizes (not much exaggeration on that). Also, anybody that knows me knows that I like to wear my clothes form-fitting (AKA slutty, but with class) because now that I have curves (not lumps, humps, and bumps), I like to showcase them instead of hiding them (nothing wrong with that – it’s not like I’m walking the streets in my stilettos and fishnets). I read in Cosmo (a completely reliable source of highly pertinent information, I might add), that women who wear form-fitting clothing exude more confidence and accentuate their figure more, whereas women who wear baggy, loose-fitting clothing appear more matronly and fuller-figured.
I slipped the first springy, flowy dress over my head easily enough and take a spin to see how it looks. It looked too flowy, didn’t show enough cleavage and had too many freakin’ flowers with so much pink tulle that I looked like a cotton candy fluff. Next!
The next selection also went on like a dream, but this one fit like a glove. It hugged in all the right places and showed just enough of my breasts to look hot without appearing overly trampy (key word - overly). Unfortunately, the leopard print pattern didn't quite look Eastery enough, so I had to toss that quality piece to the castoff rack. Easier said than done, however, when I went to slip the dress over my head, every woman's worst dressing room fear occurred (besides bathing suit fittings) - it got stuck. Not just for a second, or even for a minute, but forever it seemed.
After several minutes of panic-filled floundering (which only made the dress more of a twisted, contorted pretzel) and on the verge of a hyperventilation attack (where is a paper bag when you need one? or a pair of flippin' scissors?). As a woman, I know that there is safety in numbers. Meaning that this was a prime example of why you should never clothing shop alone. If I would have had a friend, my daughter, or had managed to drag my husband out shopping with me (which is more torture for me than him) - this whole fire (pyromaniacs anonymous, here I come) would have been extinguished in record time. Silly me for thinking that I could actually finagle trying on a few outfits all by my incapable self. Oh hell no, instead, I managed to completely mummify myself to the point that I thought the jaws of life were going to be needed to be called in.
After several minutes of writhing, panting, and trying my best to extricate my body from this cannibalistic dress, I made the decision to further humiliate myself ( a daily decision - welcome to my world) and seek the help of a lady comrade. I bent over enough so that I could crack the door slightliy ajar and then positioned myself so that I could scope (through the plunging neckline that was now eye-level) for my unsuspecting altruistic (I was/am a charity case, after all) victim.
The first through the fitting room door was a tiny goth gal. I immediately decided she would not suffice since my left thigh probably weighed more than her whole body. There was no way she'd be able to muster the strength to pry that sucker off of my convoluted body. Besides, my heavy breathing most likely would have blown her right out of the fitting room (and, frankly, I couldn't handle any more drama at that point).
The next gal through the door was hot and heated while she was screaming into her cell phone. Apparently, she was talking (screaming) to the girl that her boyfriend had fucked the night before. While she looked strong enough to pull it off, she also looked strong enough to take me out (especially with all that extra adrenaline she had pumping through her) and I wasn't willing to risk death by dress strangulation (although it was almost to that point anyhow) or cell phone to the cerebrum. She surely had some anger displacement issues and I wanted NO part in that ( I have enough of those myself, thank you very much).
Then she glided in: my savior. She had a special golden glow about her and I could tell immediately she had the strength to endure the rigors involved. I spewed out into the hallway, right into her path. She wasted no hesistation at springing to my aid as she strapped herself in for the bumpy ride. My devious plan had worked. As we were struggling in the fitting room hallway, the commotion we caused created quite a scene. Never mind the fact that I was in only my bra and underwear (at least they matched) with a dress stuck around my head. As this angel-clothes-wrestling woman was doing her damnedest to assist me and I was thrashing around like a caged animal (leopard), we quickly drew the attention of little twig girl and angry, my-boyfriend-just-cheated-on-me, displaced-anger girl. Twig girl ran out to help, but I insisted she stay back, lest she get seriously maimed. Bitchy, I-totally-see-why-he-would-cheat-on-you girl didn't offer any help, but rather she quickly dialed a friend and yapped that she would totally not believe what was happeing in the fitting room right now. So glad I could help you forget about your boyfriend's indescretions (bitch didn't even thank me).
What seemed like hours lasted probably only a couple of minutes. I was ever-grateful for angel-dress-wrestling woman and put her number on my cell's speed dial to which I promised I'd call her if I ever got into a bind again. She joked that this wasn't the first time she's had to help and sure it wouldn't be the last. I told her she should shop ladies stores for new positions as a lady-clothes wrangler because she was so good at it. Moral of this predicament: make sure you are wearing clean, matching, (and cute) undergarments when clothes shopping alone. You just never know who is going to end up seeing them...
