Last week I decided to go dress shopping, inspired by the tan I’m starting to grow on my usually pasty-white legs, and the fact that I’ve recently lost a little weight. Nothing major because after all, slow and steady wins the race, but I have been able to go down a couple dress sizes in the last few months. (Who knew that exercising on a daily basis and changing your diet actually made you lose weight…it’s almost like it’s a science or something). I found this absolutely beautiful tuxedo-style black and white dress and it looked like we were made for each other. We both liked punk music (especially Bad Brains and Rancid), Chinese Food, expensive coffee, and how sometimes it rains when the sun is still out. When I locked eyes on this beautiful garment from across the room at Ross, Dress for Less, the song “Dream Weaver” started playing on my internal radio that soundtracks my life. I couldn’t wait to get her into my arms as I ran over with the speed of Flo Jo and the joy of that little girl from Lazy Town with the pink hair. I held the dress out at arms’ length and we spun around together under the fluorescent lights while the song in my head switched to “Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong.” I was so infatuated with this gem of a dress, and so intoxicated by her sleek fabric, that I rushed to the dressing room without even checking the size. It was a hasty, impulsive decision I made without realizing that the consequences of it would haunt me for the rest of my natural life.
After I hung my single, solitary, perfect dress up for the dressing room attendant, he indifferently handed me a plastic number one. His lack of ceremony and excitement annoyed me. It was merely a transaction for him, a simple matter of loss prevention, while for me it was possibly the first day of the rest of my life. My time here on earth was destined to be split into two definitive parts: the time before I owned this dress, and the time the dress and I would spend together. I refused to let his apathy (and apparent sinus condition) get me down, and I was consoled by the obvious significance of the fact that I was carrying a number one back to the dressing room. It clearly represented that this dress was THE ONE…duh.
I couldn’t wait to get into that dress, to experience the delightful and unexplainable transformation that only a really good dress is capable of performing. It allows you to go from Plain-Jane to Knock-out in .057 seconds…or however long it takes you to pull a zipper up and ruffle and understated tulle. I ripped my homely jeans and T-shirt off knocking my glasses onto the floor in the process. I was so ready to get into that amazing dress that I just scooted my glasses over to the corner of the dressing room with my toe, and pulled the dress on over my head. Actually, now that I think about it, none of this would have happened if my glasses hadn’t fallen off of my face. I would have seen the number four on the tag, plain as day, if I was seeing with 20/20 vision instead of the 20/490 that I manage to pull off on my own, eau naturel.
I got the dress over my head and pulled down to my waist before I realized that something was horribly, HORRIBLY wrong. There was no way in hell, with all the modern science of this world, that the dress was going to fit over my hips. My hips are not size 4 hips. They are not size 6 hips. On a really good day when I haven’t eaten anything salty—scratch that—when I haven’t eaten anything at all, my hips are size 8 hips. But here I was, trying to squeeze my Jennifer Hudson body into a Sarah Jessica Parker sized dress and the outcome did not look good. I decided to admit and accept defeat before my claustrophobia started to set in or before the dress cut off the circulation to my legs. I sighed in dejection as the dress of my dreams broke my heart. I would seek my revenge by hiding it in some forgotten corner of the store where it would never be picked up and taken home by some shallow size-four-whore who would help the dress achieve its full potential. Oh hell no. That dress was going to wither away in the corner until discovered by a disgruntled employee during inventory that would promptly move it to the clearance rack.
It was then that things went from sad to tragic.
I tried to pull the dress back up over my head only to find out that my ribs were apparently not size four ribs either and I had maxed out the bodice of that dress. I started to panic for a second when I realized that my dress wouldn’t budge in either direction, but I calmed myself down with the thought that surely there was a hidden zipper somewhere. That had to be it. There was a zipper that wasn’t unzipped and that was why the dress was slowly suffocating me. The feeling of absolute panic started to creep back up my throat the moment that I realized there was absolutely no zipper to be found on the dress.
After about twenty minutes of deep breathing exercises, I had shimmied the dress up so it was right under my bra. I was making plans to rip the tags off—well, pick them up off the floor at this point—and put my clothes on over the dress and make the walk of shame up to the cash register. The hospital was sort of on my way home so I could easily swing by the ER to have the dress surgically removed because after all, I have pretty good insurance. I took a small break to gather my strength, and decided to try twisting the dress. Maybe if I put the front in the back and the back in the front it would make some weird sense that only an engineer or a physicist would understand and the dress would come right off.
Yeah, no that didn’t work either. It did help me get the dress pulled up over my boobs, but then I couldn’t move my arms because they were pinned to my sides completely surrounded by fabric. I looked like this weird rayon mummy. I hopped around for a few minutes trying to get my arms free so I could attempt by next big plan: Project Incredible Hulk. That’s right folks. I was going to rip the dress to shreds using my bare hands and possibly my pectorals. It was going to be awesome…and put me back $24.99 after I paid for the destroyed dress.
I was making slow progress at getting my arms free and ready for fabric ripping when a voice above me said, “Attention shoppers. The time is now 9:15. Ross will be closing in 15 minutes. Please make your final selections and report to the cash register at this time.” My heart rate increased, my hands got clammy, and my breathing became irregular. Whatever I did to liberate myself had to be done with a quickness.
I was on the verge of calling out to the poor, unsuspecting dressing room attendant who was probably calling security anyway to come figure out what the crazy lady was doing in dressing room number 2. I guess my fight or flight response kicked in and I pulled a double-axle-trip-toe-alley-loop-mc-twist-herky-jerky-cannon-ball move. I listened as the stitches stretched and groaned under the brunt force. But like anyone who has given labor to a child, I didn’t even remember the pain because the liberation was such a beautiful, beautiful thing. My ribs expanded out as my lungs filled to their full capacity for the first time in thirty minutes, my eyes de-bulged, and I put my aching arms down to my sides. I heaved a few deep breaths and braced myself against the cold veneer door of the off-white dressing room.
Free at last, free at last. God almighty, free at last.
I got dressed quickly knowing that time was running out and the fitting room guy would be escorting me out soon. I picked the beautiful but toxic dress up and put it back on the hanger inside out, and caddy-whompus hoping that I at least left a make-up or deodorant stain somewhere that would be comparable to the bruises it left on my rib cage. I grabbed my glasses and my plastic number one, once a boon of good-fortune, now a mocking reminder of the thirty minutes of my life and top layer of epidermis that I would never recover. I marched out to the fitting room attendant who was leaning up against a wall, staring at his watch and tapping his sneaker to the overly-waxed floor. I handed the number back to him and tried to look at nonchalant as possible.
“Did that work out for you?” he asked even though he didn’t care.
“Oh sure. I’ll take it.” To the 8th circle of hell, that is.
On my way out of the store, I took a small detour to the Home Goods section. I crammed the dress, hanger, size four tag and all in between a broken mirror and a wooden plaque that read “Home Sweet Home.”
Take that you misleading tease of a dress. See you on the clearance aisle in two months next to the denim jumper with cross-stitched daisies on it and the belted dress that has lost its belt.
oh sweet goodness you make me laugh
ReplyDelete