No, that's not the name of the latest Quentin Tarantino film... That's a description of my afternoon.
I went shopping with Olivia today. We ate lunch at IHop (first of several mistakes- remind me next time that only alcoholics and kids leaving prom at midnight actually choose to eat at IHop on purpose- at least at our IHop.).
We were having lots of fun together. Then I decided to look at dresses. Geez. Way to ruin a great day, Chelle. I decided to be brave and try on a few in a smaller size (second mistake), since I've started losing a little weight.
The first one was just so-so. Didn't make me cry, but it wasn't anything special. It was too low-cut for church, which is the only place I go where I'd need to wear a dress. And while I was impressed with the appearance of my own, um... neckline area, I pictured myself greeting my pastor in this dress and decided against it. Best not to be known as the Church Harlot, when I'm probably already known for several other unflattering things.
The second one almost looked good, as good as a dress can look on a horse. It was kinda stretchy too, so I could fool myself into thinking the smaller size really does fit well. That's a huge bonus.
The third one... Aw, geez. The third one was a pull-over-your-head kind of dress. It went on OK, which I'm still trying to figure out. It was pretty tight in the, um... chesticular regions, though. Uncomfortably so. Do you remember me telling you the other day I'm just a teensy bit claustrophobic? I hope so, because that figures greatly into our little story from here on out.
So I've got this dress squeezing my, um... lung area, and then I realize it's kind of tight in my shoulders, and oh Dear God, I'm going to die if I don't get this &*%#$!!! thing OFF right NOW. I start to pull it back up over my head, and... I'm stuck. It's stuck. I can't breath. I AM GOING TO DIE. I tell Olivia, "Oh, geez. I think I'm stuck in here."
Livie says, "You're whaaaat?" She starts to giggle. She doesn't seem concerned. No, not at all. She doesn't realize my head is starting to go all fuzzy and I have roughly 48 seconds of air left before it's all over, and her mother will be wearing this tight, evil piece of crud in her coffin.
She says, "What do you want me to do about it?"
I gently, calmly tell her, "You have to get me out." By now, I'm laughing with her, which is using up my last little bit of oxygen (third mistake). I feel myself fading.
She laughs hysterically, wasting precious seconds wiping the tears rolling down her cheeks and slapping her leg.
I say, "I'm glad you're enjoying this so much, but I NEED SOME HELP! GET ME OUT NOW!"
She wants to know how, exactly, she is supposed to get me out.
I drop to my knees in the dressing room, begging her to "LIFT IT UP! PULL IT OFF! GET ME OUT!" I hear more laughter, and what I'm certain is the sound of another leg slap. "I'm your mother for Pete's sake- please, if you've ever been fond of me at all, even a little, help me! I'll buy you something with Hannah Montana on it. PULL!"
She pulls. It comes off. She laughs. She wants to know how I managed to get stuck in a dress. She says this whole thing was "a little bit ridic-lee-ous."
We open the dressing room door, and I am surprised to see there are no security guards waiting for us with guns drawn, after all the commotion.
I bought the second dress. The stretchy one. Suddenly, I really loved it. I bought Liv some Hannah Montana hair clips.