A Fitting End

Some time ago, I had to get a gown for a formal wedding. This was a project of enormous magnitude, because on the list of things I hate, Number Two is trying on clothes. Number One is actually wearing them. I tend to buy clothes without trying them on and wait till I get home, where there is comfort food and Coors Light available to take the edge off the horror as I see if my selections fit. Why do I do this? Simply put, because fitting rooms are terrifying places. Fitting rooms are a rare blend of fun houses and torture chambers. The designers of fitting rooms are sick and twisted individuals who were a) males who, as children, were made to wear shorts outfits with knee socks and a matching plaid tam, b) architect school dropouts, or c) people who had their knuckles hit with a ruler once too often as children. When I was younger and had a waistline, I used to worry that someone was secretly filming me in the fitting room. Nowadays, I feel that the punishment fits the crime.

I dragged my husband to the mall one evening after dinner, when his stomach was full and he was relatively content. On the way there, I kept up a constant stream of whining.

“Why do people think that we actually want to go to their wedding?” I asked George.

George grunted. I continued. “And who came up with the brilliant idea to make it a formal wedding? What is that about? Do these people think they’re Rockefellers? Hiltons? A gown, for Chrissakes. A dress is painful enough. I have to wear a gown? A foo-foo gown with all the trimmings?”

George grunted. I continued. “And if they think we’re giving them a big wedding check after this dress code bullshit, they have another thing coming. I’ll probably have to shell out at least $400 for a damn foo-foo gown that I’ll never wear again. I hate foo-foo gowns worse than I hate weddings.”

George grunted. I sighed. We got to the mall and made our way into a well-known department store.

I stopped dead in the entrance of the Women’s Department, staring in horror at the Evening Dresses section. The department was so tightly crammed with rack upon rack of dresses, suits, pants, and gowns that it resembled a rolling and pitching ocean of taffeta, silk and satin. I was seasick just looking at it. One look at the department was all it took for George to take off to God knows where, mumbling something about getting the hell out of there.

Taking a deep breath, I dove in. I quickly found that, in order to move through the department from rack to rack, I had to turn sideways, moving in a shuffle and holding my purse over my head like I was wading through an actual ocean with my life savings in a paper bag. With my one free hand, I grabbed anything on a hanger that looked big enough for me and draped it over my shoulders. Finally, with hangers hitting me in the ass and straps choking me, I plowed through the racks until I burst through. I was sweating and breathing heavily, with a strapless dress still on its hanger wrapped around my ankle. I kicked the little number off my leg and spotted George lazily leaning up against a wall near the fitting room. I handed my purse to George and dragged myself to the fitting room.

The fitting rooms were lit with 150 watt floodlights, which magnify every dimple on one’s ass and thighs and every chicken pox and/or acne scar one might have. I think that we should think about applying SPF 40 before entering fitting rooms. There was a little alarm system rigged up at the doorway to the dressing room, which chimed every time someone passed through it. Chimed loudly.

The carpet was littered with straight pins, pieces of cardboard, tissue paper, and old gum. I have even seen discarded pantyhose in fitting rooms. With my armload of dresses dragging on the floor, I staggered down the pin-covered aisle bent from the waist, looking for feet. When I found a stall with no feet in it, I pushed through the saloon-like louver doors and hefted my prospective items onto the lone hook on the wall, all the while being slammed in the ass by the doors, which never close all the way.

Then I turned and was confronted by dozens of images of myself in a three-way mirror. Great. Now I can view my backside from every wide angle. This in itself was horrifying and I hadn’t even taken off my shoes yet.

I slipped out of only the necessary garments and unraveled the first item from the hanger. Putting it on, I tried very hard not to look into the hundreds of mirrors that were silently mocking me. Struggling to zip the back zipper, I caught a glimpse of myself, and I am reminded of the picture taken of me as my first child passed through the birth canal. I couldn’t reach the damn zipper, so I left it gaping open. Smoothing the dress down over my body, I dared a glance at the mirrors. Eek. I pushed open the saloon doors and minced my way barefoot to the door of the fitting room, where I have instructed my husband George to wait for me. He was not there. However, there were many other people there, none of whom I knew and all of whom were staring at the door of the fitting room. I glimpsed George’s head a couple aisles over from the doorway, smelling men’s cologne at the Fragrance counter.

I leaned out the door and began calling him and waving my arms, and of course, I set off the alarm. All of a sudden, the clanging brings to mind the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral calling the city of Manhattan to Vespers. The attention of everyone in Fragrance, Career Separates, and Intimate Apparel was now on me, in an unzipped powder blue two piece chiffon gown that was slipping off my shoulders. The salesperson in Fragrance, fingers in her ears, alerted my husband who was oblivious to the chiming. He ambled over, holding my purse. George looked me over like I am a prize mare he is thinking of buying at the horse auction, and he gave me the thumbs-down. Sotto voce comments from the onlookers ranged from, “See what happens when you skip going to the gym,” “I didn’t know they made sequined gowns in maternity wear,” or “Wow. That’s downright sad-looking.”

We went through this routine until I tried on every dress I brought in with me and I had a migraine headache. I gathered up the dresses, gave the finger to the ceiling (just in case the plaid tam-wearing architect dropout was still filming), and I staggered out to the attendant who took them, saying, “Have you tried Lane Bryant?”

We returned home, where I took a hot bath and rubbed Icy Hot on my arms, which were aching from holding dresses and my purse above my head for an hour, and my legs, which were cramping due to the strain of pushing through the racks of dresses. It took two days for the muscle cramping to cease and about a year for the nightmares to stop.

I finally got a gown that looks decent on me and has no elastic in it. Unfortunately, the price of said gown had my husband giving me the silent treatment for 2 days. But at least I found a gown. I will never return to a fitting room again, mark my words. Seeing myself reflected in ONE mirror is bad enough, but a couple dozen? Nah. I can’t afford the therapy.

P.S. And the wedding we attended? Would you believe the bastards split up a couple months after the wedding?