Illustration by Jan Igoe
It’s been a weird week in the wonderful world of fitting rooms, where I’ve devoted considerable time to finding a bathing suit that will flatter both an apple and a banana shape, or maybe a pear and a pineapple. At this point, I’m a virtual fruit salad.
You want enough coverage to obscure anything that swings, jiggles or bounces as if you’re jumping on an invisible trampoline. Something more modest than a Speedo, yet more flattering than a roof tarp.
At my first stop, I was returning to my dressing room with a few more swimsuits when I met my clothes coming out. The brand-new salesgirl—Polly, who looked to be all of 11—had carefully hung up the palazzo pants and top I’d worn into the store and was diligently returning them to rack. Never mind that the store doesn’t sell those brands.
Me: “Excuse me, Miss. Those are my clothes.”
Polly: “You need another size?”
Me: “No, they fit fine. They’re mine.”
Polly: “You want to buy them?”
Me: “I already did. I wore them here.”
Polly: “So, you want to check out?”
Words failed, so we opted for tug-of-war. I latched onto some fabric, but Polly had a death grip on the hangers. Yes, she had youth on her side, but I had height, weight, rage and the full-nelson move I’d perfected on my little brother.
Eventually, I got my clothes back, but that kid put up a really good fight. Someday, Polly will head the loss-prevention division of a multinational company, where everyone will have to work naked.
I gave up on bathing suits and hit the fancy golf store—the one with a 70-percent-off rack—and started hunting for a skort. They had a cute one in my size, but the zipper was stuck. The saleslady (an adult, this time) used a paper clip to MacGyver it open. “Try it on, dear,” Ruth said. “If it fits, we’ll fix the zipper.” So, off I went.
Seconds later, the skort was on and the zipper was up. But, contrary to popular belief, what goes up does not always come down. The zipper got stuck again—this time with me wedged inside. Ruth raced back with her paper clip but couldn’t get it to budge, so she called in reinforcements.
Seconds later, eight hands were plucking at my waist, trying to dislodge the zipper. One saleslady was waving a can of WD-40, and another was using her teeth. My heart was racing as claustrophobia took over. Composure-wise, I had about 10 seconds left before I’d be running out of the store screaming, skort and all.
“Let’s cut her out,” one said, sounding like a first responder at a car wreck. “Hold her steady.”
Scissors came slicing in from all sides, and they freed me in the nick of time. Ruth and her rescue team apologized profusely. They’d done their best to improvise, since none of their previous customers had ever been held hostage by a zipper.
Still, if you’re ever stuck in a skort, I’d do it in Polly’s store.
Jan A. Igoe has developed an acute case of zipper-phobia. Get-well cards and pliers are welcome at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.