Did I ever tell you about the time I got stuck inside my clothes?
Guys, I got stuck inside my clothes.
Well, I say I got stuck inside MY clothes: that’s not quite accurate. They were actually Zara’s clothes, and that’s Zara as in the store, not some friend of mine, who might have at least have been able to help me out of my predicament.
So there I was, in the Zara changing rooms one fine day, clutching a fabulous pair of skinny jeans. Now, I don’t know about you, but I always find skinny jeans problematic in the fit department, and by that I mean “they don’t”. Fit, that is. In general, if they’re the right size at the waist, the legs will be so tight they threaten to cut off my circulation, but if they fit in the legs, they’ll be so large in the waist that I’ll have a bad case of builder’s butt at all times.
I don’t know why I expected Zara’s offerings to be any better than anyone else’s but apparently I did, and that’s how I came to find myself struggling into a pair of jeans one day, and rejoicing when I managed to both pull them over my calves AND fasten the button at the waist. They fit! They were neither too big nor too small and although they were far too long in the leg, that’s par for the course with me and jeans, so I was prepared to put up with it. And as it turned out, I almost had to PERMANENTLY put up with it, because while the jeans had gone ON without too much trouble, when it came to getting them OFF again, it was a whole different story, and those jeans got as far as my ankles before sticking fast.
Uh-oh. I lowered myself onto the handy chair in the fitting room and considered my situation. I had no idea how it had happened. I’d managed to get them ON over my feet and ankles, after all, and I was pretty sure those body parts hadn’t grown any in the short time I’d been trying the ill-fated jeans on, but somehow they just refused to go over my feet.
I tried everything I could think of, which, to be completely honest, mostly involved simply tugging progressively harder and pointing my toes. There are only so many ways to remove a pair of jeans, after all, and when I’d tried all of them (including basically turning them outside-in to allow me to pull harder) and the jeans still remained glued to my ankles, I must admit, I started to panic. What would I do? How would I explain myself? Would I need to be cut out of them, and could I stand the embarrassment if so? I really didn’t think I could, which left just one solution: I’d have to pull the jeans back on, do them up, and buy the damn things, telling the sales assistant that I absolutely MUST wear them out of the store. Then I’d have to resign myself to spending the rest of my life encased in a pair of jeans that, honestly, I was rapidly starting to go off anyway. GOD.
I’m not sure what done it – perhaps it was simply the thought of never being able to wear any of my beloved dresses or skirts again – but I gave one final tug on the hem of the jeans, and miracle of miracles, they came flying off, sending me rolling backwards across the fitting room – you know, just in case I didn’t feel ridiculous enough already?
It was a lucky escape, and one I was so thankful for that I vowed it must never happen again.
Naturally, then, it happened again. Because of course it did.
Once again, I was in the Zara fitting room, which is obviously a place I should avoid from now on. This time, however, I thought I was safe, because rather than jeans, the difficult things that they are, I was trying on a perfectly innocent looking peplum top. What could go wrong, I asked myself, as I pulled it over my head, fastened the button at the neckline, and admired how perfectly it fit around my waist. And therein lay the problem. The top was the perfect fit for my waist. My waist is smaller than my bust. I had somehow managed to get it ON over said bust – and I honestly have no idea just HOW I’d done this, because I hadn’t had to tug on it or anything like that – but when it came to pulling it OFF again? Exactly the same scenario as above: the top got so far… and then it stuck fast. This time was actually much worse for me, because when the top stuck, it managed to trap my arms in a strange kind of “pulling a top over my head” position, and for a long time I remained like that, rapidly starting to panic as I realised I was probably going to have to go out of the dressing room and seek help with a peplum top covering my face (Small mercy, I guess…) and my bra on show.
I don’t remember how I managed to get it off in the end. I DO remember that it took a very long time, and that at one point I really thought the only solution was going to involve a pair of scissors and a LOT of humiliation, but eventually I managed to ease it over my boobs: the top was mercifully undamaged by its ordeal, my ego not so much. I still don’t know how on earth that thing was supposed to fit anyone, because without a zip of some sort, and in a non-stretch fabric, the larger size might have been easier to get off, but it would’ve been too big around the waist – not that I hung around to find out, mind you.