My husband burst through the door last night, eagerly proclaiming he’d scored tickets to a hot holiday event. Expecting a beholden reaction (and with any luck, a handy), he looked puzzled at my reaction. “You mean this Saturday?” I asked incredulously. “Two days from now!”
My mind did a quick inventory of my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes. Nope, nope, nope, and nope. A casualty of two years stuck at home, all sense of glam was gone. “Why don’t you just wear a dress you’ve worn before?” he asked. Glaring at his naïveté, I replied, “That’s so 2019.”
Hence, the shopping trip from hell. It’s a blustery -30⁰ C outside, so I bundle up accordingly. On the flip side, it’s a balmy +27⁰ in the mall. I have forty-five minutes to find a showstopper, as this wasn’t in my tight as fuck schedule. Along my way, I stumble upon the perfect gifts for everyone on my list. Now I’m lugging 17 hefty bags, and I’m sweatier than a June bride.
I envision a timeless, sleigh-all-day dress. Didn’t I just see a version of that yesterday? The last few stores I trudge through have nothing in my style, shade, size, or imagination. In the fifth store, I finally find something I’d consider settling for. At this point, anything outside of Lulu’s is fair game.
In the change room, I heave my parka and pile of bags onto the tiny toadstool bench, then watch as everything slowly slides to the floor. I wiggle my sweat soaked frame into the dress, but it’s a disaster. I look like my grandmother…at her funeral.
As I lift my arms, and begin to shimmy it up and over my shoulders, the dress tag gets caught on the eyelet of my bra. Now I’m stuck as fuck. With my arms pinned above my head, that troublesome tennis elbow is at a particularly painful angle.
I can’t see, but I suspect my ass is hanging out. Hopefully I closed the curtain all the way. The perky sales girl who was so intent on showing me every hideous dress, has left the building. Where’s Cinderella’s woodland creatures when you need them? I’d cry, but my left bicep is crammed against my eyes, so what’s the point.
I drag myself home with a Santa sack full of 17 bags, some self-soothing bath balms, three kinds of fudge, and a little indica. I’ll be ready to hit the town tomorrow, in my perfectly suitable 2019 dress!
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