Ummmm....Stuck

I will be the first person to admit that when it comes to clothes, I don't exactly "have it going on." Back when I was teaching school, there were multiple occasions when I would get home from school still wearing what I believed were my "totally grown up and professional" teaching clothes to have Shane say, "You didn't actually wear that today, right?" Colors, patterns, and styles definitely elude me, but I usually feel like I give it an honest effort.

Oh I'm sorry, are the cool kids NOT wearing Christmas Rules tee shirts?

I'm confident that I know what I like clothing-wise when I see it on someone else, and I can picture how I'd like to look (thanks Pinterest for showing me the unattainable), but for some reason when I get in a store I feel weirdly tall, awkward, and gangly. I look at the mannequins and the displays full of colors and textures and things I don't even know how to put on. Shopping is scary.


In spite of my shopping anxiety, at times the demon has to be faced, and I have to go buy clothes. This issue became sort of pressing right after having twins. I discovered that all of my pre-pregnancy clothes that I once believed had looked cute and sassy (I'm looking at you, former life skinny jeans), now made me look sad and lumpy. There was no choice but to head to Nordstroms in search of new pants.

Feeling extremely overwhelmed, I thumbed through racks of various pants options. Who knew there were so many? Fortunately, a sweet sales woman who could undoubtedly smell my fear bustled over to help. I tried to explain that I didn't know my size and that I just wanted pants that looked sort of cool (and less sad/lumpy). She assured me that she had several options.

After being ushered into the dreaded dressing room (three way mirrors, gross lights, trying on clothes that other people have tried on...ugh) I anxiously waited, sans pants, for the saleswoman to hand me pants over the door. I tried on the first pair, felt a little "meh" about the fit, and moved onto the the next pair. Without checking the size, I stepped in. The pants felt tight, but I was blindly confident that the saleswoman had some sort of magical ability to guess my correct size and match me up with my dream pants. Gripping the waist I wiggled side to side, stuck my butt out, pulled it back in, and tried my best to get the pants up over my knees. I immediately accepted pants defeat when I realized that there was no way  that the pants were going to button....there was no way the pants were even going up past my quads. I tried to reverse wiggle to get out of the blasted pants, but I only succeeded in tipping over sideways and falling onto the bench in the fitting room. I was now on the ground and stuck in the pants. The pants would not budge.

The saleswoman came back to check on my and I felt my last shred of dignity float away. Cue my internal conflict: Do I tell her that I'm stuck in pants rolling around and panting on the ground or do I just decide to live in the dressing room forever and die with stupid trendy skinny jeans around me knees? It is a question for the ages.

Realizing that staying in the dressing room forever until I die of starvation (or embarrassment) was not an option, I had to come to terms with the fact that this saleswoman would have to be alerted to the situation. And, that this random person would see me in my underwear. And, that this woman would have to help me shimmie out of the pants.

The saleswoman didn't make me wallow in my shame swamp for too long as she knocked on the door to see how everything was going.

"Ummmmmm.....it's not great." I replied

"Is it the size or the style?" She inquired.

"Ummmmmm yes. Both. I think. Maybe. I don't know." PANIC!

She offered to get me another pair, and I let her know that before I could try on another pair, I needed help getting out of the current pair.

Inwardly cursing myself and admitting pants-defeat, I let her into the room and accepted the fact that this was happening. She was very cool and professional about the whole ordeal, assuring me that "size mishaps" happen all the time.

She instructed me to stand up, lean against the wall, and with a firm strong grip she grabbed the pants, wiggled them side to side and then YANKED. The pants finally slid down.

"See, no problem. Can I get you another size?" She asked, as though she handled skinny jeans removals all day.

I'm pretty sure I went on and on about my gratitude for liberating my legs, and then humiliated, sweaty, yet grateful for my leg freedom I got out of there.

Know what you can't get stuck in? Yoga pants. 

For now, online shopping will be my jam. I may get stuck in clothes, but on the bright side only my dogs have to witness it. And they'll never tell.