Let me share a story about my trip to Goodwill yesterday. It was a phenomenal success, in the end, and I will write more about it later this week. But for now, a tale of two dresses and a fitting room.
I had this idea that I should look for a more structured, form-fitting dress. Yes, I’ve been catching up on Mad Men, why do you ask? It also so happens that the baby weight that is supposed to slide off at some point in the year and a half after giving birth has not slid off. In fact, it held on and invited an extra five pounds to join in the fun over the winter. So perhaps I’m not exactly clear on what a dress that fits me looks like.
I rummaged through the dress racks and came up with two dresses that seemed to fit the bill. One was black with some ruffle action happening at the knee-length hemline, very sexy, and the other was a pale green number with delicate embroidery that looked very pretty on the rack. I didn’t bother to check the size of either of them. I just held them up and thought, eh, maybe.
I took them both into the fitting room and started trying to pull the black dress on over my head. I ACTUALLY , LITERALLY thought the words, “If it is this hard to get the dress on over your head (which is not even your fat part, lady), then you should probably give up while you’re ahead.” And then, of course, I tugged even harder and wriggle danced my arms in until the whole dress was bunched up at my armpit level.
And there it sat. And there I stood before the full-length mirror like a giant black flower atop a pale and lumpy and (let’s face it, somewhat hairy) stem. I could hear the air escaping my over-inflated, self-esteem bubble; it sounded like a fart.
And then I tried to take the dress off.
I took hold of the fabric gathered below my armpits and pulled it back up. It would not budge. I lifted the mass of dress that was pressing down on the upper flesh of my breasts like the most useless mammogram ever and tried to ease it back up over my head. No go. I pulled forward and back, from this side and that and the dress would not move. The good news is that it was a Goodwill dress, so if I had to cut it off at least I’d be able to pay for it. The bad news is I don’t carry a pair of fabric scissors in my jeans. I thought about sticking my head out of the door and kind of hollering for help. “Do you have any scissors?” I’d call. “I just need to cut this dress off of my neck. Won’t take a minute!”
At last I took a deep breath and then exhaled, arched backward and reached both arms as far back as they could go and gripped some fabric. The dress started to slide up. Slowly and painstakingly, I was able to ease it up over my shoulders and slide my arms back out. It was off! Hallelujah!
Then I started trying on the next dress!
Don’t worry, it was a bit loose and the colour was horrid on me. I did think to check the tags before leaving the fitting room, though. The black dress was a size 4 and the green was a 12. So there you have it, my dress size is somewhere between 4 and 12. Fine, it’s probably not a 6 either.
Has this ever happened to anyone before or am I a pioneer in stupidity? Has anyone ACTUALLY had to cut an article of clothing off of themselves before? (I seem to remember a skirt during my first postpartum experience.)
9 replies on “A Tale of Two Dresses and a Fitting Room”
Hahahahaha! I have TOTALLY done this – more than once. I know all about the panic that sets in when you accept that the dress will actually never come off and playing in your head how it will feel to walk out of there with a tight dress around your armpits. I know the feeling of not being able to breathe because the dress is so fucking tight and you curse yourself for being stupid enough attempt to get it on your body. It always comes off though doesn’t it? Sometimes with a muscle spasm in your back, or sometimes with a little bit of fabric ripping… and the sweat. Don’t get me started on the sweating that goes on during this marathon. I’ve been there and it is hilarious. Afterwards. Never funny in the moment. :)
And this is why we should always wash new clothes before we wear them!
I’ve been there, you should read some books by Laurie Notaro – most of her non-fiction catalogue comes from these types of experiences..enjoy….http://www.laurienotaro.com/
Ooh, I will check her out. Thank you!
Honest, this story is not about me. I was trying on suits for an upcoming job interview with my best friend at the time when, from the dressing room across from me, I heard a man say, “Maybe you’re not a 4.”
“I AM SO A FOUR!” screeched the woman from behind the door. “JUST GET IT OFF ME!”
My friend and I went about our business, but the situation across the way escalated. Soon a sales person arrived with scissors, and her boyfriend went in to cut her out.
“Maybe you want to try a bigger size?” asked the salesperson sheepishly.
“There is something WRONG with YOUR SIZES,” was her reply. “I’M A FOUR.”
She never paid for the dress she ruined, and I never understood why she would continue to try to force something on that didn’t fit so bad she had to be cut out of it.
Oh my. I guess sometimes mortification takes the form of indignation?
been there done that so so many times!!! And that panicky feeling is the worst…i always wonder how long i can stand there before someone wonders what the hell is taking me!!
I can’t even imagine how long I’d have to be there before I worked up the nerve to call for help.
Chris wants to know why I am cackling in front of the computer. Did you watch Friends? “They’re not coming off, man!” Not that I know anything about what this is like. Nope. Not me.