fitting in

One of my closest friends is getting married this weekend, and I am in the wedding party, which necessitated the purchase of a bridesmatron dress. It’s actually quite pretty, although when it arrived it was very slightly loose in the bust and the waist. I didn’t think it was worth paying for alterations, considering what I’d already paid for the dress itself and since only about half an inch of fabric needed to be nipped in. I figured I’d fix the problem with creative undergarment technology, and I put the whole thing out of my mind. Today, however, I tried it on again and I’m starting to worry. The dress is strapless, which is not a style I would ordinarily wear. The euphemism “rack” does not really apply to my particular set of breasts, as their modest size precludes their usefulness at supporting or holding up articles of clothing. There is a very real risk that the slight gap between myself and the dress, combined with the lack of straps, will not bode well for anyone involved. Especially me.

At first this dilemma made me feel a bit smug: aren’t I just the most twee, skinny thing, I thought to myself. Even clothes that are quasi-custom made are too big for little old me! That load of tripe quickly came crashing down all around me today, when I found myself trying on a summery dress (this one to wear as a guest at yet another wedding) at the mall. This dress had a band of fabric at the bodice that was meant to fit close to the ribcage. However, there were no zippers or buttons or give in the material to enlarge said band enough to allow passage of the rest of the body into the garment. This silly engineering was no match for my sticktoitiveness, and since the dress was in my size I put in some legwork and managed to get myself into it. Once it was on it fit perfectly. I considered purchasing it. Then I tried to take it off, and that’s where this story takes a turn for the truly horrific. That band of fabric, which refused to stretch but still had somehow made it over my shoulders, would not budge at all when I tried to remove the dress. I briefly attempted to pull it down over my hips, but it was quite obvious that this approach would not work. I tried to pull it over my shoulders again, but I could only get one arm halfway into the bodice of the dress. As I pulled and twisted, I became more and more entrapped. I was stuck, and clearly I was going to die in this dress. The possibility of somehow getting it up around my neck and strangling myself with it, forcing me to run out of the dressing room half naked and gasping for help before passing out, was becoming more and more real. The arm I had wedged under the fabric band was actually starting to bruise as a result of my struggles. Deciding that this aggression would no longer stand, I was left with no choice but to remove the leatherman tool from my purse and make a couple of crucial snips, thus freeing myself forever from the demon dress.

It is a shameful, dark moment indeed when you are forced to cut yourself out of an item of clothing. I imagine it will be darker still when, sometime tomorrow, my bridesmatron dress loses contact altogether with my girlish chest and causes some form of awful humiliation that I will not be able to hide behind a dressing room door.

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