The other day I decided to buy a new shirt. Something funky and sexy that I wouldn’t normally buy. I wandered through a bunch of stores and nothing caught my eye. Nothing until I saw The Shirt.
The Shirt actually isn’t technically a shirt. It’s more of a bustier/tanktop with a matching tie. I found one in what I thought was my size and held it up for my friend Bonnie to admire. I then went to try it on.
In retrospect I should try and remember that trying a larger size than you’re used to doesn’t mean you’re fat. In fact, when trying on clothes that are snug, it’s almost recommended that you start large and work your way smaller. I will try to remember that in the future.
So, here I am in the change room at Le Chateau, and I’ve somehow managed to squeeze my way into this faboo top. I opened the door to the change room and looked around for Bonnie. We both admired the top and I decided to buy it. The sales girl offers me a tip: put a white shirt under the bustier so the tie goes around the collar. Tres sexy, she says. I’m not kidding. She actually said that to me. I have a witness. I tell her that there is no way a shirt is going to fit under the bustier, but thanks anyway.
I decided that I would take off the top and look around some more. It was becoming difficult to breathe, and my eyes were going funny. I returned to the change room and began to live out every woman’s worst nightmare. I could not get the fucking thing off. I tried so hard, pushing it up over my back towards my shoulders, pulling it down to try to maneuver it over my hips. Nothing. It didn’t move one damn inch. I was in trouble. And I couldn’t stop giggling.
I peeked out into the store, spied Bonnie and called her over. I told her what was happening and asked if she’d help me. She rolled her eyes at me and stepped into the change room. I put my arms up over my head as she pulled. Nothing. She grunted with the exertion of trying to free me from the clutches of the too-small shirt. Finally it began to move begrudgingly. After a few minutes, and tons of giggling from the both of us, it was sliding over my head and onto the floor where I kicked it mercilessly. Stupid thing.
I finished dressing and we opened the door to find four salespeople standing outside. I held up the shirt and said it was too small. The sales girl asked why didn’t I undo the zipper. I felt the blush rise up my neck toward my hairline as I replied there wasn’t one. She looked slightly confused and took the garment from me to examine it. I swore to myself right then that if she found a zipper I would go hang myself in the change room.
Since I am writing this, one can assume she didn’t find one. And in answer to your unspoken query, yes I did buy the shirt. In medium. And it fits quite well.

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