sausage linked in

Since the summer preview (December I think) of my favorite fabulous British mail order catalouge, I have been drooling over the notch shift dress in sailor blue. I checked stock in my size and bestie color almost daily and was poised at the ready for the moment the semi-annual sale started. I eagerly added my beauty to the cart and waited very impatiently for my lovely to arrive (yes, I know, I have a problem with retail and honestly, I need another dress like I need another cup of joe). Despite the spotty bag being intercepted at the front door and the myriad of questions regarding it's contents and straying from the budget, I was overjoyed by the prospects of how my life would be complete with the new addition hanging in my closet. I quickly dismissed myself from mum chores (watching my favorite episode of the Backyardigans with the kids) and locked myself into the bathroom to try on my treasure. I carefully unwrapped the bags and examined the work of art - gorgeous indeed. Deep breathe, over my head - stuck. It's ok, I thought, it's new. Not yet broken in. Maybe I was too hasty and the zipper isn't all the way down - snap - it was. I warped my body and wiggled my way in, sucked in my belly, zip and I can't breathe - not at all. Maybe I should try again - maybe somehow the lining is twisted or bunched or something (reasonable, right?). Don't know why I didn't think of this before - off with the
dress! Or not...

Stuck in the dress. Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened. Last time, I was in the dressing room at JCrew 10 minutes before closing looking for something to wear for an upcoming wedding (so far, deja vue). I found a pretty gray pin-dot swishy dress and noticed that it was a smidge difficult to get over my head and to force my arms through the holes, but it was late and I was tired and surely it didn't help that I was pressured by the model skinny high school girls anxious to lock up and go on their hot dates. So, anyway, here I am in the dress. Meh - just ok. Nothing fantastically flattering about the color or fit. It's closing time anyway, time to go. Only, I can't get out of the garment. I try to get out the same way I got in - over my head. No. Hem is by my head, but the waist won't budge. I suppose I can try to pull it down. I got an arm out and then nothing. This is way worse. I dislocate my arm to get it back in the hole and back to square one. Don't worry. As I am starting to sweat, I survey the situation - smooshed into a $98 not wonderful dress at closing time in a store's 3'x3' closet with Dansko clogs, mismatched socks and a fleece. I could tell them that I want to wear this ridiculous outfit home. Choice #2, beg for help. Did I neglect to mention that I had been using self tanner on my extremities and so I was only semi-tanned. I would need to be cut out of the dress with hedge clippers by these perfectly toned and bronzed teenagers. And, my belly looks like a sharpei puppy when I bend at all and the stretch marks - mother of pearl - the stretch marks! Grr. Option #1 is seeming like the less humiliating selection. Panic. As I prepare to scream, I spin around as fast as I can one last time, in an attempt to reverse the sands of time, and glance in the mirror only to see the zipper. I never unzipped the zipper. Gather composure, peel off the caftan, throw on my jeans and run out of the establishment toute suite and deny this memory forever.

So, not as bad as the last time but I am feeling really awful. I peek at myself. I look like a couple of sausage links in a terrific casing. As I choke back the tears of disappointment, I try to remind myself that it could be a hundred times worse. I count my blessing and shed light on my self-inflicted predicament. Perspective is usually great, but today, at this moment, I don't care. I AM STUCK IN A DRESS!!! Could this be punishment for not sharing the pound of fudge with my children? Or something far greater? No time for reflection. Somehow, I find the strength and contort my body out of the shift. I throw on my best ripped, faded, pity pjs and curse at the stupid dress that I never really liked anyway. I am way better off without that dress. I do love that dress though. I decide to write a scathing online review only to discover that the recommendation is to order a size larger as the cut of the dress is exceptionally narrow and if you have curves of any sort (I do! I have a lot of curves!) that you should go bigger. I feel marginally better, but only marginally. I hereby vow to only snack wisely. Unless, of course, another special delivery of treats arrives on my stoop.