Unlawful Restraint

     God is going to smite me. This afternoon I stopped by a local consignment store, where I browsed for an outfit to wear to an upcoming formal party. As most of my friends know, I’m slowly succeeding in my weight loss effort, which makes the resale store a great option for something I might only wear once. But my recent dieting victories sometime make me overly optimistic about what size clothing I can actually fit into; this, I believe, was the root of today’s problem.

     I found a lovely chiffon blouse which perfectly complemented a black skirt I already own. It still carried the original tags, so I could tell it had been quite expensive. But it must have been on the rack for some time, because even the second-hand price had been discounted. My bargain-loving genes perked up, and I decided to try it on. It was a size Medium.

     The blouse had a zipper running down the center two-thirds of one side seam—a common feature of ladies’ eveningwear. Any woman who has worn a garment of this type knows very well that the zipper placement makes it much easier to put on than to take off, and that extracting oneself may require significant bodily contortions. This is true even if the piece in question fits you. Even then, it is advisable to have a good friend or husband nearby, just in case.

     I stepped into the shop’s tiny dressing room and wiggled into the blouse. It was a little snug. I stepped out to look in the three-way mirror and, ever the optimist, determined that if I could lose another five pounds before the party, it might be a go.

     Back in the fitting room, I tried to lift the blouse over my head. No luck. The top was too tight, and the room was so small that I couldn’t maneuver my arms sufficiently upward to work myself free. I tried tugging and twisting, and can only imagine the noises I made in the process. Still nothing. I was trapped.

     The only other people in the shop were a teenage cashier and the male shop owner. I considered calling out for the girl to come help me, but ruled the idea out on the grounds that 1) she might possibly know one of my kids, and 2) she would be even more embarrassed than me if she had to help rescue me from the blouse. The man was totally out of the question. I was wearing a hot-pink bra.

     Now sometimes good people have to make tough choices, and at that moment I honestly felt I had few options. I could have walked up to the cashier wearing the blouse, paid for it, and cut it off when I got home, but I just couldn’t bear the shame. So I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open at both ends of the zipper. It tore pretty easily, but that was probably my adrenaline at work. I’ve heard of people performing all manner of amazing feats in traumatic situations such as this.

     Too mortified to admit my shameful secret, I replaced the blouse on the hanger with the torn seam carefully camouflaged and smuggled it back onto the rack between the other items I had brought into the dressing room. I quietly ducked out the door as another customer was coming in. The phrase “banned for life” flitted through my mind.

     When I sheepishly shared this tale with Ted after dinner, his only response was, “Do you make this stuff up?” Sadly, no. I only wish I had that much imagination.

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Epilogue: After an evening of soul-searching, I returned the next day and purchased the ruined blouse, paying in cash. I did not confess my crime.