I am standing in line for a dressing room. Around me teenagers are giggling at remarking about the end of the school year. Proms, graduation parties the same sort of feeling I used to get. 'I'll help you if you help me, you don't think this is too long do you?. Make sure it looks OK?' They hug it out and march off into separate rooms.
The worker calls me up, grabs my dress, the one that is super cute and I am dying to try on and marches me back to the room.
Closing the door I slide off my jeans, my t-shirt and lay my hands on that very cute sundress. Please let this fit. Please let it look as cute on as it did on the hanger. Because we all know, it usually never does. These things are all so very typical of every female on the planet. We stare at pieces forever wondering things like fitting in to things. Believe me we do.
Taking it off the hanger I inspect it. And then I realize it has a zipper. Shit
I try not to panic, I can manage it. I can do it. I am like every other female. Except I’m not. I can’t use my right hand and so that simple zipper will eventually become a pain in the butt. Trust me on this one. Still I slide the dress over my head, and it looks oh so cute. Honestly it does. And yes, it does despite my worry fit me. I rejoice in my victory feeling the comfort of a win.
Now as long as I can get the zipper.
Twisting myself I contort my arm as far as I can. The more I do so, the higher the dress does, which is great I can inch the zipper up. But so does the dress, the moment I pull it down, I can’t reach the zipper to actually pull it up. It is an endless battle between my left hand and the zipper. The zipper was clearly beating my ass.
And people wonder why I hate trying on clothes.
OK so maybe turning the dress around backwards or to the side and sliding it around would work. Believe me I know all the tricks. And so I do. Except it isn’t made to be that kind of dress. And on the side, well I still can’t reach it. I think about calling out for help, but decide not to. What am I twelve?? And there is no sign that reads, dress assistant provided. Not that any stores have one. And I am sure if I begged someone some poor soul would have pity on me. But I always feel silly to ask for it.
Beside me two girls are laughing and carrying on.Back in my own, I want to cry. Frustration begins to hit. And for a moment all I really want is to be like everyone else. I try once more before deciding the dress wasn’t all that worth it, I mean honestly if I couldn’t get it in the middle of a dressing room, how would I be able to do it at home on my own.
And so like I have done with so many other garments, I abandon it.
Cursing the dressing room on my way out.