The Most Hazardous Shopping Trip Ever

By now you know that I take God’s Word seriously.  I want you to also know that I don’t take myself too seriously.  Life in a fallen world can be heavy and painful, which must be answered with Defiant Praise.  I think it also warrants purposeful seeking of laughter and levity, so we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this message:

I was scheduled to attend a special event and had bought an outfit to wear to it.  The new clothing warranted some more ‘substantial’ undergarments than I currently had in my wardrobe.  Off I went to the nearest department store and surveyed the vast array of options to lift, slenderize, and smooth my lumpy self.  It appeared that all the marketing adjectives were just euphemisms for ‘squeeze’ or ‘squish’.

I selected several tank tops and camisoles in my size and ducked covertly into the dressing room.  As I pulled the first candidate over my head, it required some rather exaggerated movements to get it into position.

I think I stood a few inches taller in that narrow mirror: the sausage casing had redistributed my volume into a longer but narrower profile.  My breathing was shallower, but not so much so that I felt lightheaded.  Surely these were indications of the efficacy of the not-your-grandmother’s-girdle?  The fluorescent lights seemed to offset whatever bulge-reducing benefits the apparatus offered. As a gal who really doesn’t enjoy shopping, I was eager to draw this escapade to a close.  No need to try on the others; this one would suffice.

I crossed my arms, grasped the hem of the camisole near my hips and started to pull it off.  I was successful in my effort until I reached the bottom of my ribcage.  I couldn’t get it up any higher, much less all the way over my head and off.  These garments should come with warning labels like toddler pajamas that aren’t flame retardant: caveat try-er on-er.

In the last year I’ve been suffering from a shoulder injury:  an inflamed rotator cuff.  Raising my arms more than 60° from hanging at my sides results in sharp pain.  As a result, I’m extremely weak on my left side.  The ugly truth set in:  getting out of that camisole was going to require strength I simply didn’t have.  I actually began to panic as I realized the gravity of my situation:

I was stuck.

In shapewear.

In a fitting room.

What does one do in such a situation?  Rational thought escaped me.  Was it oxygen depletion?

LifeCall commercials from years-past flashed through my mind:  “Help, I’m stuck in some Spanx and I can’t get out.”  I wasn’t wearing my necklace.

Dressing rooms, unlike hospital rooms, don’t have an emergency call button to page the nurses’ station.

Dial 911 on the phone and help is on the way for life-threatening circumstances.  What’s the number for emergency underwear extraction?

Suddenly the thought of help arriving to deliver me from the fashion flames was more frightening than staying in the dressing room eternally.  Generations of mothers have warned their children to always change their underwear in case they’re found in an unfortunate predicament.  Well, this yet-unpurchased underwear was definitely clean, but I had absolutely no desire to be found only partially in it.  Some sausage had escaped the casing and its’ bulge was exaggerated by the tourniquet-effect of the shapewear sitting mid-midriff.

No, I’ll just stay here.  In the dressing room.  Surely after a number of days without nourishment it won’t be so tight and I’ll be able to get myself out.  I clearly wasn’t considering how the lack of nourishment would also affect my strength.  (I told you rational thought had escaped me.)

Minutes passed as I sat on the narrow bench under the fluorescent glow, deliberating on my predicament.  I decided to make one more attempt having rested my shoulder briefly.  This was my Hail Mary:  everything depended on it.

I made it out.  A bit unconventionally (think down, not up), but nonetheless out. It was like wrestling a crocodile.  Steve Irwin (may he rest in peace) ain’t got nothin’ on me.  No, siree.

Is this why women go shopping together?  To prevent accidents such as these?  We need to have an ECT (Emergency Clothing Technician) with us when we brave the dressing room?

By the time I’d paid for my goods and made it to the car, the whole situation was hilarious to me.

Perhaps it was oxygen circulating properly again.