Sheesh. My mother told me I need to update.

I was recently thinking of a very blog-worthy event that occurred at a time when I was on hiatus from blogging. Awesome. I'll call this phenomenon "blogunition."

At a local department store on a busy Saturday, I took an armload of dresses into the fitting room and commenced with the torture that is determining why department stores put fat mirrors* in their dressing rooms. *Fat mirrors = mirrors that make one look fatter than they already are. Scientifically speaking, the convex sort.

So I start trying on these little dresses. And the process is moving along. And then I come to this really cute little number, and I notice that the alarm is in a funny place (clamped over the zipper under the arm), but it slips on easy enough, so no worries. It's a form-fitting, sleeveless dress that I opted to go bra-less under because of the tailored cut. But I don't really like the pattern on the fabric, so I take it off.

The end.

Ha. Ha.

Eh-hmmm. So I TRY to take it off. Only it's not budging. The dress, which I didn't unzip to put on (recall alarm), is now folding itself up over the alarm, but has no intention of moving from my body. The next sentence is not an exaggeration. I spend fifteen minutes STRAIGHT UP PANICKING in the dressing room. It sounds like a wrestling match. And my asthma is beginning to get mighty unimpressed. So in a moment of sheer desperation I step out of the dressing room to see a woman I recognize from the gym. I say, red-faced with hair mussed, "Do you recognize me?" And she smiles and says she does. At this point, I can barely make words because I'm shaking so badly and the only vision I have is of the jaws of life getting me out of this dress. I explain in short grunts my situation and ask her to send an associate to my aid.

Not two minutes later, crouched over in the dressing room I hear a call over the PA system. "An associate is needed in the ladies fitting room, a customer is stuck in a dress." THEE HORROR. An associate (among other customers) shows up, investigates the situation, shows a fair amount of concern and says - "We need to head over to the registers. We'll just lean you over the machine that removes the alarms."

Um, Hi. I'm stuck in a dress. I put on my pants in the panic over the ambulance showing up. I have on ... no bra. An announcement has been made about ME over the loud speaker. And now you want me to parade to the front registers? We need a plan B.

She leaves me be for a few more minutes, returns with another associate. They have dismantled the register, removed the alarm-taker-off-er, and are prepared to rescue me from the dress I've grown to hate. Only one problem now. When they remove the alarm, it's going to send two sharp prongs into my rib cage. This is a risk I'm willing to take. So one chick has her hand wedged in the dress, against my side, the other is working the machine. I'm not breathing. A pop. A snap. A click. A little sting. And I'm out.

I've only purchased shoes and head-bands since then.