A Stitch in What Saves What??

So I've been woefully neglectful of my blog as of late. Honestly, with the move, transitioning into a new job, new schools for the entire family, and an entirely new routine which requires me to actually arrive at my place of work 5 FULL DAYS A WEEK and DO WORK, I haven't been able to muster the energy to put any type of words together to form sentences to form paragraphs to document the anecdotes that make up my life.

In other words, I've been too stinkin' tired to blog and I haven't been able to think of a single minutely interesting thing to say.

Until tonight. I had an epiphany. Or rather, a hypothetically humiliating experience and some cry for attention within me feels that I needed to lay my embarrassment out there for all the free world. It's cathartic, what can I say?

Tonight I had to go to Target for just one item, but found myself perusing the women's clothing section. Heck, I was away from the house childless and with my husband's blessing (for I was to return home with Baskin Robbins!). I took full advantage. I spied a cute dress on a hanger and picked it out in a size that my idealistic side was wishing would be too large for me, but my practical side knew better. I carried it into the fitting room, and chose a room with a suspicious odor. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the odor until it was too late, if you know what I mean. Too late, like I was wishing I hadn't even taken my shoes off.

I tried to ignore the odor (or at least pretend like it wasn't what it smelled like) and I tried on the dress. Now- what comes over women (by women, I mean "me" but I just pray I'm not the only one who does this) when they try on clothes that, once they get started with the "trying on" process, they become acutely aware that the garment in question is obviously too small, yet they insist on attempting to get said garment on completely- is this to further torture oneself and one's self-image by seeing how utterly terrible one looks in ill-fitting clothing? I don't know why, when we see the objective going south, we don't just abort the mission and later claim we never had any knowledge of said clothes. But, hypothetically speaking, I was determined to get that dang dress on, come hell or high water.  And it didn't fit.  Clearly.

However, the worst is yet to come.  Removing a dress that's too small is a feat to be feared.  If anyone has ever experienced that moment of panic when you realize the clothing (that doesn't even belong to you) isn't coming off without a fight, let me get an "Amen."  Amen.  

Now it was woman against inanimate object.  So I'm in a foul-smelling dressing room wrestling with a dress with my arms flailing in the air and the skirt of the dress covering my face in an attempt to suffocate me and thus declare itself the winner of the UFC match this evening. Drastic times called for drastic measures.  I yanked and pulled and finally cleared my airways of nylon.  Once my brain and muscles responded to the fresh air, I was back in the game.  Stitches may or may not have popped in my attempt to free myself and save my life.  Seams may or may not have torn apart.  Once I was dressed in my own clothes, I may or may not have hung the dress back on the hanger and returned it silently to the friendly lady handing out numbers for the fitting room.    

To soothe my wounded emotions from the painful Project Dress Removal, I continued on to Baskin-Robbins for the aforementioned ice cream.  But I think I'll be starting Weight Watchers tomorrow.