I Don’t Think It’s Supposed to Look Like This

There we were under bright lights. My hands were bound over my head and I had been blindfolded so I couldn’t see anything in front of me except a blue and green abstract print.

Being stuck in this situation wasn’t a pleasant experience; especially when you start to sweat because the store didn’t happen to be air-conditioned, and yes, I was having a hot flash.

There was no negotiating with this terrorist dress. I was a hostage, and stuck just under my shoulders and over my head while I was sweating.

I have always had problems with dresses where the only way to get them on was to pull them over my head. Not becausedepartmentstoredressingrooms I couldn’t get the damn dress over my head, but I had to get it past my shoulders. I have wide shoulders. This may have been a direct result from swimming since the age of seven until I was seventeen; two miles a day, everyday during the summer. But, now that I’m fifty, I don’t swim like that anymore. Matter of fact, I loathe swimming now because I swam all the time when I was a kid. The last time I got into a pool was to train for my triathlon which was about nine years ago. I refuse to get into a swimming pool unless I’m having a hot flash and need to cool myself off. Jump in. Get wet. Get out. Repeat.

So, there I was–stuck. I couldn’t pull it down, and I couldn’t pull it up to get it off. This is when I started the wiggle process. I twisted my body left and right, turned myself around until I got dizzy and had to sit down on the bench–if I could, in fact–find the bench since I was blinded by rayon, chiffon and lace.

As I felt my way around the dressing room to find the bench, I tripped over my shoes and hit my head against the wall.

This stuff only happens to me. Seriously? I’m thinking to myself. There better not be a hidden camera in here.

“Everything okay in there?” The lady apparently heard a ruckus coming from my dressing room.

“Umm. Not sure if you have ever had a woman held hostage in a dress, but if not, this is your chance to get a medal to rescue her from it.”

I have no balance. Everybody who reads my blog understands this. Having hit my head against the wall, fortunately landed me in a praying position on the bench.

How ironic.

I’m also grateful that the dressing room had walls that went all the way down to the floor because I wouldn’t have the opportunity to defend and protect my purse, due to my current hostage crisis by the terrorist blue and green dress,  if someone had decided to crawl under the walls and kidnap my purse while I was being held hostage. I would have no recourse, and I would be pissed.

Really pissed.

I sat there on the bench sweating and without the ability to see. It’s bad enough I have trouble hearing, and now I was losing the feeling in my arms  because they had been over my head for, oh, I don’t know, a year–maybe? A hostage has no concept of time when they are held captive. It felt like a year sped by when it was probably only five minutes.

It was the most uncomfortable five minutes of my life compared to giving birth to my son–which took longer–much longer.

“May I come in and help you get out of your dress?” The lady had become my Navy Seal who was going to rescue me!

I declined her assistance. I didn’t want her, or anyone, to see me like this. I was going to get out of this straight-jacket contraption on my own if it killed me.

But, she opened the door to my dressing room after hearing me get frustrated and tossing out a few F-bombs. I knew what was going to happen next.


“I don’t think it’s supposed to look like this,” I said. “Can you help me find a dress that zips up the back so I can have a hard time zipping it all the way up and dislocate my elbow instead?”

She helped release me from captivity. The terrorist dress was hung–back on its rack where I hope it stays forever.

I sat on the bench with my hair completely in disarray; not that it already wasn’t a train wreck. Thankfully, I wasn’t wearing any makeup or else it would have ruined the terrorist and I would have had to pay for its violent act.

Can you imagine having to pay for something that causes you so much emotional and physical torture? Wait–what am I thinking? I have kids and dogs that do that already.








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