The day began, auspiciously enough, with my alarm failing to go off. The result was that I awoke at precisely the time I should have been arriving at uni for my first class. I decided to take this as a sign that I should not go to that class and instead do one of the many small tasks that I've been putting off for ages.
Which is how I found myself happily meandering down K Road snooping in all its many interesting op-shops, on the prowl for a new work skirt.
I wandered into the Paper Bag Princess. After several minutes of focused skirt stalking I found several items of interest. Having thus completed the business side of the trip I moved on to casual browsing.
Hanging in an innocuous corner of the shop was a black dress that caught my eye. High-waisted; short in the front but long in the back; the bust and long sleeves made of heavy, stiff material that contrasted with a floaty chiffon skirt. Size: Medium. Price: Very cheap. In other words: Awesome. Provided it fit, it would become mine.
Burdened with my selections, I went up to the front counter and asked the shop assistant if I could try things on. The lady was quite engrossed with the work she was doing - attaching labels to new items of clothing. She glanced up briefly, said, "Sure, go for it," and nodded towards the changing rooms directly opposite the counter.
"Thanks!" I cheerfully said, and went into a cubicle.
The changing rooms in this particular store are not ones that encouraged loitering. Located in the very centre of the store, with very short walls and a flimsy curtain providing a bare minimum of privacy, they produce a sense of discomfort that makes one feel as though anyone could peek and stare at you in your undergarments. It was thus with swift and decisive movements I tried on the myriad skirts and settled on one for purchase. Only then did I turn my attention to the glories of The Dress.
I had a bit of difficulty pulling in on. The size of "Medium" was evidently wishful thinking for it could very easily have fitted a small or even an extra-small. Nevertheless I persevered in pulling it over my head. Only when I failed in my attempts to do up the side zip did I finally accept that this dress, while wondrous in many regards, was not to be mine. In any case, the front of the skirt was scandalously short and showed my pale, wrinkly, hairy legs off to full sickening disadvantage; and the sleeves had these ridiculous little pointy bits coming off the shoulders that were strangely reminiscent of the fashion sensibilites of the Addams family. I sighed regretfully and started to take it off.
It was then that things began to get difficult.
No matter how hard I tried to tug and pull I could not get it off. The sleeves were so tight I couldn't bend my arms enough to reach and pull it over my head. The best I could do was wave my arms above me in the haphazard manner of some rapping gangster. As my arms were therefore in full view of the entire shop this was somewhat of an embarassment to me - but I struggled gamely on. I strained until the very seams seemed fit to burst assunder; - but to no avail! The dress would not be removed!
Every now and again I would pause, panting from my efforts, to listen with apprehension to the movements of the shop assistant. I did not know whether I feared or yearned for her to wander over and ask, "How's everything going in there?" For then I would be obliged to tell her of my struggles and I wasn't sure I could bear the shame. As the minutes lengthened so too did the agony of my predicament.
Twenty minutes went by. Then a full half-hour. I had been in that cubicle far longer than was seemly - and unless something changed, I would be in there until Judgement Day or the closing of the store (whichever came first). At last, in sheer desperation, I concocted a Master Plan.
I ceased my struggles to remove the dress. Instead, I directed my efforts towards the absolute opposite - that of completely doing up the dress. At first it seemed as equally as impossible - the dress had as little desire to do up as it did to be taken off. I was almost sobbing in desperation by this point. This Dress was pure evil - a devil in clothing form!
And at last, only by sucking in my stomach to ridiculous proportions and the careful removal of my bra would The Dress zip up. I spent a few more minutes trying to adjust to oxygen deprivation.
I collected up my assorted paraphenalia, took a deep breath, and whipped open the curtain. I stepped out, pretending bravely that it was perfectly normal to spend forty-five minutes in a changing room evidently doing nothing more than admire myself in the mirror. Affixing an ingratiating smile upon my face I strode up to the counter where the assisstant was still methodically attaching labels to things.
"Hullo," I said brightly. "This might seem like a weird request, but I really love this dress and I really want to wear it out of the shop. Is that possible?"
Dear God, let it be possible, I thought frantically.
"Sure it is!" she replied. "I can see why you'd want to, it's a lovely dress and it looks great on you!"
"Yes," I said, "It is lovely."
"We just need to make sure the security tag is removed... ah, it is up there around your neck... you might need to take it off so I can remove it and then you could change back into it."
My heart froze in sick horror.
"Oh, but that's such a hassle," I said breezily, as though I was just experiencing a fit of laziness and not everlasting, agonising doom. By employing every iota of charisma I possessed I managed to convince her that my doing elaborate gymnastics stretched out on my back across the counter to reach the tag remover was infinitely more convenient.
I paid for the dress. I left.
The wind was blowing harshly and I was in danger of having an already indecently short dress become even more revealing. I walked down the street constantly clutching the skirt, forcing it down. I was sure I looked ridiculous - braless, hairy-legged, gasping on whatever air I could suck into my compressed lungs.
The bus ride home was infinitely worse.
Once home I found that I was still unable to remove the dress myself. The time had come for drastic measures. I drove to my mum's place and entreated her to cut it off me.
She assented; but only after laughing uproariously at my expense for what I felt was an unnecessarily prolonged period of time. "Oh, Zara," she said, wiping tears of glee from her eyes, "This is too ridiculous. You are too ridiculous."
Gee, thanks, Mum.
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