the dressing room

Lest you think my dad a tyrant or scoundrel (previous description of driving habits), I must clarify that he really is quite a generous, loving, good man. One of the best I know. Just don't catch him overly hungry, tired, or behind the wheel and you will find a giant among men. And my husband would be happy to tell you that I am the same in many ways. I daresay he is right.

Now, on to the next installment. dress-ing n: the act or process of one who dresses. room n: a divided part of the inside of a building (or in this case, department store).

Way back in the "olden days" (as my children would call it), when I was thirteen, one of my best friends and I liked to frequent the one-and-only mall in our town. Note the word town. Not city. I did indeed, grow up in a relatively small town filled with apple orchards, farmland, occasional tumbleweeds and whirlwinds. So when one of the largest department stores, in the only mall for miles in every direction had a sale, EVERYONE went. And a sale was coming. Not just a sale in one or two departments, but a store-wide sale.

Suzanne's mom dropped us off for this sale of Biblical proportions. The mother of all sales. We immediately rode the clear elevator that smelled funny up to the third floor. For some unknown reason, everything throughout the store that was on sale ended up on the third floor--a giant room with a white tiled floor, filled with long, brown banquet tables piled high with every item imaginable. We stepped out of the elevator and the sight before us took our breath away. We beheld a wonderland of shopping. Unending tables just waiting...only one obstacle stood between us and fulfilling our shopping dreams. People. The scene only compared to life-threatening "Black Friday" sales that currently go on, where the threat of being trampled is very real. Bravely, tentatively, we wove our way through a maze of shoppers.

Our first conquest: a table labeled, "girls clothing." One thing you need to know about Suzanne is, she was a size zero. Truth be told, I still don't quite understand how that is a legitimate size. If there is zero ice cream, for example, according to my understanding, there isn't any. Zero. It just so happened that I wore a size 6. In other words, I was HUGE. For a girl that started her growing years in the fourth grade, I always felt huge around Suzanne. She grabbed her usual size zero jeans and there was no way I'd be caught dead carrying around a 6, so I smiled at her and grabbed a 2. As if.

With arms full of clothing, we excitedly carried our stash into the dressing room and began trying on sale items. While attempting to squeeze my ankle into a pair of too-tight jeans, I lost my balance, leaned against the dressing room wall, and knocked it over. Down went the dressing room. port-able adj: possible to carry or move about. As it turns out, it was a very large, very tall, portable dressing room, brought in just for this sale, that folded up like an accordion upon landing. I know this, because I saw it first-hand.

Here was the problem.

When colliding with a tile floor, the dressing room sounded like a bomb exploding (it was pre-unibomber days, but one must be careful). Upon hearing the "explosion," all shoppers looked in my direction with a collective gasp (I tend to have that affect). And there I was, as if on a stage, standing helplessly. Suzanne, who was fully dressed, quickly said, "I didn't do anything," and walked away acting as if she didn't know me (I also tend to have that affect). I stood there pleading, "help," while shoppers gawked. Much like when driving by a car accident, you don't want to look, but you can't help it.

Another definition. un-der-wear n: clothing worn next to the skin and under other clothing (emphasis added). As my luck would have it, that day I'd donned my most lovely pair of undies. A shimmering shade of mauve. My apologies, but for the benefit of readers born after 1989, mauve n: a medium purple, violet, or lilac. Here's the bonus. They were the larger variety, reaching well past my belly button. In circumstances such as this, underwear that big could have been a huge benefit. But no, it was akin to the nightmare where you're half-dressed (or worse) in public. And when I thought It couldn't get worse, I looked down. Until that moment I'd forgotten that the left side-seam of my mauve underwear was completely gone. In other words, there was a large, gaping hole that took up the whole left side of my underwear. It was held together only by its elastic waistband and legband-a made up word.

Time seemed to slow down. Once again, my plea, "Help...help," all the while wishing I could disappear. Something I have wished many times since. A nice saleslady came to my rescue, "Come on dear," was all she said as she hauled me off "the stage" and wrapped me in a discounted blanket.

The rest is a blur.

I have often wondered what was going through my sweet mother's mind every time she washed that pair of underwear...perhaps it was, "Oh, this color is so pretty, I just hate to throw these away." Or maybe, "I forgot! I need to sew these pretty little things up."

And I was the one who put them on.

Maybe it all boils down to the old adage, "Fix it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."