>The Reluctant Shopper

>As I head for a dressing room with The Dress of My Dreams hanging over one arm, a saleswoman stops me.

“You’re going to need a bigger size than that,” she says.

I freeze.

“This is the biggest size you have left,” I said. “And it’s my size.”

She half chuckles. “Let me know if you need help trying to zip it up,” she says nastily, backing away. I continue on toward the dressing rooms, my head spinning.

You’re going to need a bigger size than that?! I ask myself. Let me know if you need help zipping it up?! What the hell was that supposed to mean? I shut the dressing room door and examine myself critically in the full-length mirror. Shockingly, I seem to have gained a good 25 pounds in the last half-hour. Back at Macys, where I started this shopping trip, I’d been feeling good about how I looked. In fact, as I’d twirled in front of the mirror, I’d fancied that after two weeks of dieting, I was almost approaching… svelte.

But here, things are different. I’m going to need a bigger size than that. I stare at The Dress of My Dreams dismally. The woman is probably right. I mean, what does she do all day except watch women try on things that didn’t fit? Realizing this, I don’t even want to bother with the rag. I can save a good five to ten minutes if I just leave, without putting myself through the humilation of trying on a dress that everyone in the front of the store must now be surely whispering is way too small.

But I have my pride. If I leave without trying the dress on, it will be admitting defeat. And I can’t do that. Oh, no. I can’t do that. Reluctantly, I take off my shirt and jeans, step into the dress, and pull it up over my legs. Immediately, I can tell it’s going to be, um, snug.

After a mighty struggle, I manage to get it up over my shoulders. To hell with the zipper. It already fits me like it was painted on, and somehow, I don’t think that’s the look Ann Taylor was going for.

Red faced, I peel it off my body and carefully hang it up. Quickly, I get dressed and then exit the dressing room on tiptoe. I peep around the corner. The saleswoman has her back to me. The last thing I need to hear right now is a smirky, “Oh! It didn’t work out for you? I’m so sorry!”

And so I make a break for the entrance. From the dressing room, I can almost hear The Dress of My Dreams, mocking me. “You’re going to need a bigger size than this, nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!” I cross the store’s threshold at a trot and break into a run once I hit the mall, panicked, sweat trickling down my back.

And people wonder why I don’t go shopping more often.