Me Versus The Dressing Room

The ultimate face-off between mortal woman and trendy fashion

Who doesn’t love a fluorescent lit dressing room with circus mirrors? Seriously — what’s not to love?

Between the cornea-burning fluorescent lights that accentuate every dimple you never knew you had, mirrors that make you feel like you’re Kendall Jenner one minute and an obese Gollum the next, and the prying eyes of your hyperactive salesperson trying to sell you this season’s hottest everything — it’s essentially paradise.

I recently had the pleasure of being in a dressing room when I was shopping for some new pleather pants.

Everyone knows you can never have too many.

The saleswoman was appropriately attentive, as in she was smack in front of my face at every turn.

“That comes in twenty different colors! I think chartreuse would look smashing on you!” she shrieked in my ear with far too much enthusiasm.

I think chartreuse only looks good on drunk sea lions or the Queen (God rest her soul).

I took a bundle of chartreuse and rubbery vegan leather clothing into the dressing room to try my luck. She told me to hang tight as she had one more thing. Yippee!

She handed me a massive swath of vegan leather. It took me a few minutes to determine what the garment was — as it looked like two pleather pillowcases that had been sewn together to make pants.

Ha! There’s no way these will fit — I thought. They will swallow my birdlike frame whole.

She sensed my hesitation. “Just try them, okay? Trust me, you’re gonna love ‘em! And I can totally get you a bigger size if needed.”

Who did she think I was? The ghost of Chris Farley?

Five minutes later — the struggle continued. I couldn’t get the pleather pillowcases on. They were stuck to my thighs like paper mache. I wriggled and writhed and hopped on one foot. I shimmied and shook and was about to get on the ground to do the worm, when there was a knock on the door.

“Everything okay in there?” asked the saleslady sounding a tad concerned.

“Um, yeah, everything is great. Totally great.” I said trying not to sound too out of breath.

“Okay just let me know if you need anything!”

“Yep, will do!” I said in between hip thrusts.

I decided to give up. The pants were not budging. They defied all laws of reason. I could wrap my VW Atlas in them twice, but they were not getting past my dainty little thighs.

Another knock.

“Hey, I brought you the next size up just in case, okay?”

“Okay! I don’t think I’ll need it, but thanks.” I lied and cried.

She left them for me.

I looked at the larger pair of pants that appeared to be cut for an elephant.

Fuck it, I thought.

I put them on with ease and looked in the mirror. I busted out laughing and almost peed myself.

Good thing it’s pleather, I thought clenching my legs. I looked like the long lost child of MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice.

Another knock at the door.

“How’d the next size work out?” she pried.

Are there cameras in here? How the hell did she know?

“Um, I think they work?” I said as a question.

“Can I see?”

“Sure.” I whispered.

I timidly stepped out like a 13-year-old about to read from the Torah at her bat mitzvah.

“Those look bangin’! Wow! Turn around for me. Yes... those are perfect.”

Did she just return from an Ayahuasca retreat? Under what sky are these pants perfect?

She told me the pants and chartreuse blazer really make a statement.

I believe the statement is: only wear this combo in the presence of people on Ayahuasca.

She made me stand on that cursed pedestal with a three-way mirror so I could see how insane I looked from all angles — and so everyone else in the dressing room area could see too.

An awkward teenage boy waiting for his mom shielded his eyes. I think I just ruined sex for him.

The saleslady brought me four-inch heels so I could understand how the balloon pants were supposed to be worn. Not with my grimy Birkenstocks?

I clumsily stumbled around the pedestal like a drunk fawn, holding my breath as I made every effort not to fall. I think the highest heel I wear these days is 1.5 inches — but not after a drink.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, beaming as if I were a princess in a wedding gown, not a middle-aged mom in pleated parachute pants.

“Yeah, I totally love them,” I blurted before my brain could consult with my mouth.

“Shall I put these up at the register for you? They also come in burgundy. That could be fabulous for the holidays.”

“Great!” I screeched like a wounded egret.

She smiled and sashayed out of the changing room.

I held onto the wall for dear life and eased myself into a sitting position so I could remove the stripper heels before spraining both ankles and face-planting.

I changed back into my cut-offs and Birkenstocks and felt like a normal human again.

I rounded the corner where the saleslady was eagerly waiting.

There was no chance I’d ever wear those MC Hammer pants from hell. What on earth would I wear them to? No one would understand what they are. How could I explain them to my fashion-ignorant spouse?

I bought two.

The pants can be found in my closet— tags intact, alongside other notable fashion attempts gone horribly wrong such as the long denim skirt, oversized puffer coat in metallic eggplant, platform clogs, low-rise fringe jeans, banana yellow jumpsuit and others too embarrassing to mention.