I got stuck in a dress and I panicked.
I was trying on clothes in a vintage store and when I found a dress that was gorgeous. As I pulled it over my head, I had a familiar thought: it might be a little too small — but surely, with a bit of a wiggle, I could make it work.
Once again, my trained eye deceived me.
It was snug around the hips. Too snug.
Being the creative type (not really), I turned the dress around so the zip was at the front, briefly convincing myself I could cut the bottom off and turn it into a jacket.
This plan fell apart quickly, mostly because I don’t have any dressmaking skills.
When I tried to take the dress off, my shoulders got stuck.
Both shoulders.
I was now standing in a tiny cubicle, wearing a dress two sizes too small, back to front. The zip was undone to my belly button. My bra was exposed. My arms were rendered penguin-style.
After deciding I could not live in the cubicle indefinitely, I weighed up the following options:
- Panic and start behaving like a maniac in a straightjacket;
- Rip the dress and pay for the humiliation;
- Kneel down and meekly call for help.
I took a full five minutes to complete Option One.
It was emotional.
It was exhausting.
It failed.
I briefly attempted Option Two, but thanks to my recent experiments with exercise, my muscles were no longer listening to my brain.
Option Two: out.
Which left Option Three.
There was nothing left to do but accept that I would never return to this store – part of the city – every again.
I got on my knees and asked for help.
Everyone was so kind,
While I died.
Dead.
As I made my way home in shock, I was comforted by one thing:
At least I hadn’t bought the dress and tried it on at home, alone.
I could only imagine the look on my poor husband’s face if he walked through the door to find me trapped in a dress, calmly waiting for him to release me.