The Trials and Tribulations of Being Me

As I was running my usual errands (you know - the Dollar General, prescription refills, reading all of the tabloids at Books-A-Million but not buying them, etc.), one of my worst nightmares happened - I became stuck in a dress at Forever 21. Of course, being in Forever 21 is horrific enough for me since I feel quite old shopping there and usually, much like my days as an actual teenager, think the current teenagers who are meant to wear the clothes are judging everything I pull off the rack. Anyway, I guess I was being fairly optimistic about my size because I chose a dress somewhat snugger than I imagined. So, even though I got it safely onto my body, I couldn’t get it off. (Truthfully, this really is a panic inducing situation for me. Of course, my anxiety level is never good, but something about having my face surrounded by cotton really brings out the claustrophobic in me.) To make matters worse, when this occurs (because like I alluded to before, it happens much more often than it should), I can never figure out whether I should keep trying to get the dress over my head, or if I should pull the dress back down and try to step out of it instead. But, I was never good at math or spacial visualization, so of course I can’t figure out whether my hips are larger than my shoulders and vice versa and which really would be the best way to escape my synthetic fabric hell. And, since by now, the panic will have escalated to sweaty palms and difficulty breathing, I usually can’t get a good grip on the dress and don’t make productive pulls to begin with. Then, I’ll think I hear the fabric ripping (probably because it is), and I’ll begin to resign myself to a life inside the dress - as if I can permanently wear an extra large scarf around my shoulders and not be noticed rather than having to call for help in what I consider to be a very embarrassing / weight questioning situation. When my sister is around, I just yell for her to come and give a good yank. But, unfortunately, she’s in New Orleans and it would take a bit too long for her to make the trip and rescue me in the dressing room. Eventually, I freed myself (and just decided not to check for loose seams), but, unfortunately, it wasn’t before contemplating the thought no woman wants to have: "Do you think I’ll have to pay for this dress after a sixteen year old sales clerk cuts me out of it?" Because, after all, the only thing worse than being cut out of clothing would be laying down the (full price!) bucks for it afterwards.