One size does not bloody well fit all

Wandering around the streets of Soho the other day, high as a kite from a 4-hour coffee/mac/brownie session at my fave cafe, and sweating it up amidst the 30 degree heat and 95% humidity, I stumbled across a couple of boutique shops. I saw a great dress in the shop window. A one-shoulder number, with a groovy waistband and a 50s inspired skirt.

"Snap", I thought. "I could SO channel Betty Draper in that" (if I didn't eat for a month). It's the perfect frock for the black tie wedding I've got coming up".

So, with an excited, sweaty skip in my step, I lurched towards the very small boutique and jubilantly swung open the door. "Isn't this always the way you find the perfect dress? When you least expect it?", I thought smugly to myself, with a wry smile on my face. The morgue-like feel of the store, created by the 3x1m space and ice-cold air-con did nothing to deter my confidence in what I was quite sure was about to be the purchase of 2011.

I browsed through the rack on one side of the morgue, with one eye on the prize in the window, then whimsically swivelled on one foot to assess the remaining rack of chilly attire. As I expected, nothing could usurp Betty's efforts in the front window.

"Snap", I thought again.

So I grabbed the dress and walked into the coffin change room, ready to knock myself off my own feet. I took off my dress, feeling somewhat cooler and even more high than I was 5 minutes earlier and prepared the frock for lift off. I undid the zip, smiled, put it over my head and pulled it down. "Ooh", I exclaimed with a muffled voice, lost somewhere under that fabulous 50s skirt. "That's a little tight!". I took off the dress and looked at the size. Shit. One size fits all. Shit shit shit. I took a deep breath in as pearls of sweat began to appear on my brow, lifted the frock above my head once again and this time, yanked it down a little more aggressively. After a few more rather vicious yanks and twists and "hmphs", I got the dress down. And finally breathed out. "Phew", I said out loud, quite sure the shop attendant was watching every move in the strategically placed mirror above my head. "They sure don't make them like they used to, do they?! Ha ha ha". I looked in the mirror and thought, "Betty Draper, eat your heart out". Until I turned to the side and realised I'd left out one sizeable element of the process. The zip. Shit. Again. Shit shit shit. I wiped my now dripping brow with the dress on the floor and after a minute of pedantic preparation, breathed in as hard as I could, squeezed the sides of the dress together and pulled the zip.

No movement. Nothing.

Shiiiiiiiiit. I waved my arms to dry out the pool that was forming underneath them, breathed in again and jiggled around the coffin in an attempt to shift the excess baggage that was quite obviously the cause  of this hideous process. Once again, I pulled the zipper.

And once a-bloody-gain, nothing. NOTHING. "Great". I thought. "Just frickin' great". You're a bitch anyway Betty. You're a shit mother and a bad wife. Why would anyone want to look like you anyway. So, I went to pull the dress off, and it wouldn't fucking move. "You are joking", I thought. I tried again. And again. And again. And I couldn't get the damn thing off. "Great. I'm going to have to open the curtain, look at the size zero shop attendant and ask her to find some fucking scissors because I'm a whale and I can't get the fucking dress off". The defining moment that every woman wants. Fuck. In an attempt to maintain some form of dignity after this unexpected disaster, I tried one more time, thinking a strategic use of sweat might just be the ticket. And I was right. At least the god damned humidity is good for something.

I quickly put my dress on, tore open the curtain and glared at the little shopkeeper with a look that would kill. I shoved the dress at her and politely indicated that in fact, one size does not bloody well fit all.