I’m currently having 75 kinds of conniption fits and one panic attack.
I’m trapped in a dressing room, stuck in a dress, and I’m pretty sure someone’s going to have to call for the Jaws Of Life to get me out.
I’m not kidding you, I’m trapped in a dress.
This is so embarrassing.
Let me back up a little, since it seems I have nothing but time, standing here struggling against the world’s most stubborn zipper, my arms hopelessly pinned at my sides from trying to wrestle the whole set-up over my head…
Have I mentioned? This is So. Embarrassing.
Man and I recently made plans to go to the Video Game Symphony (What? It’s culture! Sort of.) with our two friends in April. No sooner had we acquired the tickets than I decided I needed a new dress. I think. What does one wear to a Video Game symphony, anyway? My thoughts turned to this adorable black-with-white polka-dot vintage number with the most delicate spaghetti straps and layered flowy skirt. Not too formal, not too casual, would look perfect with my leopard shoes and a little cardigan. Perfect. I want it.
After dinner, Man and I came to the store, where he agreed that it’s a perfect dress for the occasion and I should try it on. I know I’ve, um, grown a bit, since moving here but I’m pretty sure that I can diet and get into my old size by April. Right? Perhaps I should try it on just to see how much growth I’m working with.
So I found myself a discreet little dressing room in the back (In case there was grunting and heavy breathing involved, which it turns out there is. A lot.) Against all my better judgment, I zipped the zipper and wrestled the whole thing over my head, struggling harder than I thought I would with the breast area (Seriously, designers? Women have boobs. Design accordingly.), and that brings us to my current situation:
Trapped. In a dress.
Have you ever seen a cat get itself stuck in something like a bag or a blanket? You know how it goes into a total panic, then sits quietly for a moment before going back into a total writhing, scratching panic? That’s me right now-- torn between relenting to the situation and determined to get out of it without having to wobble out of this dressing room with this thing stuck around my mid-section and admit defeat. I got the stupid thing on, there’s got to be a way to get it off!
Perhaps if I get it turned around and position this hopelessly frozen-in-place zipper in front I can reach under the skirt and free myself. I’ve been in here a long time, Man’s going to come looking for me soon. What if he brings the dressing room attendant with him? They’re going to come knocking on this door any second now and see the ridiculous situation I’ve gotten myself into! The attendant and my boyfriend are going to have to work together as a team (Team Fat Girlfriend!) to get me out of this garment, and I’m going to have to move back to Jersey, then crawl into a little hole and die. I’m just going to die!
Speaking of die, I suddenly can’t breathe so well. Oh! My! Gawd! I’m about to suffocate and drop unconscious on the floor of this dressing room. Now he’s really going to come looking for me. They’re going to find me stuck in this dress, the bodice halfway between front and back, turning three shades of red and un-effing-conscious on the floor!
I think I’ve hit my panic button again, because—like the cat in a blanket—I’m struggling as if my life depends on it… Which it feels like it does.
What was that?
That’s nice. I’ve just snapped one of those delicate spaghetti straps clean off.
There goes the other one.
Pardon, but are you fucking kidding me?
It seems that the broken straps have given me the space I need to reach under, undo the zipper and take the first reasonable breath in what seems like 20 minutes. This is what it must feel like to be freed from a hungry, squeezy snake. I sit on the little bench and catch my breath. Now I feel like crying.
Instead, I find myself starting to chuckle. If this isn’t blog-worthy, I don’t know what is.
I do my best to put this dress on the hanger and emerge from the dressing room (Victorious?). I can feel my face burning as I hand it back to the attendant, then grab Man by the hand and lead him out of the store like the place is on fire.
“Didn’t you like it?” He asks.
“No. Let’s just go.”
“You wanna try on another one?”
“Where are we going?”
GNC. I left that store and went straight to the other side of the mall to GNC where I spent my dress money on appetite suppressants.
I know. Don’t look at me like that.