We looked at each other in shock. It was a nightmare come to
life.
We looked at each other in shock. It was a nightmare come to life.
“Try it again,” I said.
“Nope, it won’t open.”
This was some kind of cruel joke, I thought. Panic stricken, my companion proclaimed, “I’ll slide under and get back in.”
As I watched her attempt to crawl under the dressing room door, I realized nothing that big would fit into an opening that small.
“I’ll run and get the attendant,” I said.
“What’s the problem?” the attendant asked.
“My friend stepped out of the dressing room to show me an outfit, shut the door and got locked out,” I replied.
“Oh, that happens all the time,” she said, with amusement in her voice. I looked at her and suggested a sign be posted over the dressing room: Caution – doors lock automatically. She looked at me and smiled like I was the idiot. I knew instantly she was the brains of the whole operation – people try on hideous, tight-fitting clothes, get locked out of their room and are then subjected to public humiliation as shoppers walk by. How’s a person expected to maintain a shred of dignity in such a situation?
No matter who you are, trying on clothes is an experience that can chip away at your self-esteem and dignity. The following is a conversation between a mother and daughter who were shopping together that I unfortunately heard the last time I ventured into the chamber of horrors, aka the fitting room.
“Wow, Mommy, that dress looks ugly on you. I liked it better on the mannequin,” the child said to her mother.
“Well, not everything can look good on me, sweetie,” the mother replied.
“Boy, Mommy, your stomach sure looks funny the way it hangs over the pants you’re trying on. Will my stomach hang like yours when I’m old like you, Mommy?” the girl asked.
“If my prayers are answered, kid,” the mother replied. Irritation had replaced the loving tone she used when addressing her child.
“I saw a model in a magazine wearing the same nightgown you have on now, Mommy, only she looked good in it and her hair wasn’t all messed up,” the girl said.
“I’d look good too, kid, if I was air-brushed and had a personal hairdresser,” the mother answered. “She doesn’t always look that good, believe me.” The mother paused, then: “Hey, kid, why do you keep playing with my arms?”
“Because I like to watch the flab under your arms swing back and forth,” the daughter said. “I call it bat wings. Will I grow them too, Mommy?”
“I live for the day, kid,” the mother said. “Now come on. We’re done here. Let’s go.”
“Did you leave anything behind, Mommy?” the girl asked.
“Just my dignity kid,” I told my daughter. “Just my dignity.”
Cindy Argiento is a free-lance columnist who lives in North Carolina with her family. Her column appears weekly in the Gilroy Dispatch and Hollister Free Lance. She may be contacted at ca*******@*ol.com.
