Dressed to Kill
I’ve worn shoes that pinch, and sweaters that suffocate. But never has an article of clothing actually attempted to take my life. Until last Wednesday. That’s right. Around eleven o’clock in the morning, my cousin Lisa’s one hundred percent silk, one hundred percent sexy, XOXO sheath tried to kill me.
See, I was staying at her house. It’s a three-story townhouse in Edgewater, New Jersey, and the best thing about it – other than the fact that my family and their laundry were six hours south, there were no escaped bulls trying to barrel their way through the front door, and the views of New York City are absolutely spectacular – is the closet space.
There are four wall-to-wall closets. And they’re all dedicated to Lisa’s clothes. And shoes. And handbags. She leaves for work, and I employ myself by rummaging through her things, trying stuff on, and calling her with every find. “Do you have plans for the grey Trina Turk in the bedroom closet or can I borrow it? And how ‘bout the colorful print number from Cache? Can I take that too? Great, thanks. Now tell me about the red mini dress from Guess. Black boots with that, or chocolate?”
Last week I was in town for some book signings, and except for my toothbrush and some underwear, I didn’t even pack. I simply strolled in, gave my cuz a hug, and headed for the closets. I spied the hot ‘n homicidal XOXO number sometime after my arrival on Sunday and thought, hmmm, that would be perfect for Wednesday night. I’d better try that on.
But I didn’t. At least not until Wednesday morning when I stepped out of the shower and attempted to slip into it while I was still damp. Ok, maybe I was a little more than damp. Maybe I was closer to dripping. And of course it got stuck.
I had my head and right arm in, when suddenly the fabric shallacked itself across my shoulders. I couldn’t shake it loose or pull it down and yet I tried, like a lunatic, to put my left arm in. It snagged around my wrist and there I stood: naked, wet, and wondering if my cousin would leave work to cut me out, or if I’d have to really humiliate myself and call 911.
“Oh, hi officer. Do you think you could just send, say, a few of your female associates? I was duking it out with a dress and now my privates are public and, well, you know what I mean…”
Worse yet, the V-neck was wrapped twice around my neck. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and couldn’t imagine what the folks at Barnes and Noble would say if I showed up with my hooters - and other girly goodies - hanging out.
My guess is they’d probably call the police and the papers and, while I believe there’s no such thing as bad publicity, even for me this would be pushing it.
Finally I wrestled the dress off and hung it up. Then I dried myself to the point of chafing and slipped that baby right on. It fit, it looked good, and I wore it to my book signing that night. Then I stepped out of the store and into a downpour. Trust me when I tell you, that sucker’s no fun to sleep in.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
