Dangers of Shopping Solo

       Since March I’ve been working at my seasonal job scoring standardized tests. I put in a lot of overtime—one week I worked 73 hours. While I was working fast and furiously, I didn’t make it to the gym a single time. Things have eased up now. I’m only working a 40 hour week from home, no weekends.

On Friday after I logged off, the house was extremely quiet. John was out of town. Sarah was also out of town. Johnny and his girlfriend Sarah were out with their friends, about 30 minutes away.  So I did what any bored American woman would do. I went shopping.

This was a targeted shopping expedition. There were two reasons for my shopping goal: new active wear. One, I needed to get myself back on the workout track and new workout clothes would give me a boost. Two, my black workout bras had mysteriously disappeared in the whirlwind rearranging of our house when we got a new roof, and I was tired of looking for them.

I don’t mind shopping by myself. In some ways I prefer it. I can concentrate fully on finding exactly what I want. I don’t have to keep track of where someone else is, or whether they’re getting tired or hungry. I’ve never needed someone else’s opinion of what looks good, or horrible on me. I pretty much know. The mirror doesn’t lie. And I'm a decisive shopper. I don't need someone to urge me to get something or convince me not to.

On mother’s day, Sarah told me that she’d almost gotten me a shirt a Old Navy because it looked like Blue Willow and she knows how much I love Blue Willow dishes. She didn’t get it because she said she wasn’t sure I’d like it. If I went to Old Navy, I’d be able to look for that shirt and get some workout clothes. That’s where I’d gotten my favorite workout pants. Maybe I’d pick up another pair of those too.

As soon as I walked through the doors, I spotted the Blue Willow shirts. There was a tank and one with short sleeves. Neither of them was on sale, so I kept walking to the active wear section.

The sports bras were on sale if you bought two. I selected two of them. A newer version of my yoga pants were hanging nearby. They only had gray ones in my size, none in black. I added a pair to my try-on hand. Then I saw the clearance rack. There were some possibilities there—sports bras, and a beautiful yoga top at half price. The top was a medium! Just my size!

On the way to the dressing room, I had to pass through the clearance area. Someone in Old Navy’s marketing department planned that well. I rifled through those racks and found both Blue Willow shirts at half price and in my size.

A friendly young black girl let me and my 10 items into a dressing room, “Just let me know if you need any help with different sizes or anything.” She looked like she was in high school. I thought she was pretty smart for getting her “summer job” lined up before the other teenagers even started applying.

I hung the clothes with hangers up on a hook, and laid the folded t-shirts on the bench. Let the trying on begin! The yoga pants were great. The fabric on one of the t-shirts was off grain so that went in the “no” pile. The Blue Willow shirt with the sleeves was flattering. I could wear it with my white jeans or blue jeans, or shorts. I hung it on the “yes” hook. The tank version was also cute, but my arms aren’t toned enough to wear a tank other than to work out in. I wavered. Well . . . I could wear it with a cardigan, or just wear it at home. It went on the “yes” hook.

Next on the try-on hook was the yoga top. I loved the cool blue and green swirls of colors. It had a key-hole back, something different from my usual racer back tops. It would be perfect for Zumba or yoga.  I carefully threaded my arms through the body of it and made sure my head was going through the neck hole.

Here's what the key-hole back looks like.

Wow, it was a little tight, but I snaked my way in. Yoga tops are supposed to be tight so that you’re not falling out when you’re twisting around and upside down.

On the hanger this top looked great! I really wanted it to look great on me, but I could see parts of me overflowing the edges. I knew I’d gained some weight from sitting at a computer all day, and not working out. I’d have to go back out and see if they had it in a large.

I grabbed the bottom hem and started trying to pull it back up over my head. As soon as it got to my rib cage, it stopped. I sucked in and pulled the shelf bra up over my fullest area and then tried pulling from the bottom up again. It wasn’t budging. My injured left rotator cuff protested loudly when I tried muscling just one side up.

I started to panic a little. Then I began to talk or argue myself down, “OK Laura, just take a deep breath. . .I can’t. It’s too tight!. . .  Just take a little breath then. Let it out, then give it a mighty heave ho!” I did. It was a no-go.

Grasping the bottom hem tightly, I started tugging and jumping up and down at the same time in the hopes that momentum and gravity would help. After a few minutes of futile pogo-ing, I sat down on the bench with that stupid yoga top bunched up under my arms, as tight as a boa constrictor wrapped around my body.  

I was starting to sweat. It was definitely hot in there. I leaned my head back in exasperation and looked up at the ceiling. Is that a security camera? Yep, I think it is. Well, they’ll be having a good laugh about this. Please God, please don’t let me end up on YouTube!

I stood up and jumped up and down a few more times. The yoga top refused to move. I bent at the waist and wrestled. This must be how Houdini felt trying to escape the strait jacket. But he had double jointed shoulders. I don’t.

I sat down again. I really didn’t want to have to call that nice dressing room girl for help. How embarrassing would that be? I don’t have a bra on. Getting half naked middle-aged women with injured rotator cuffs un-stuck from yoga tops probably wasn’t on her job description and I'm pretty sure it wasn’t what she was looking for in a career or even a summer job. Well, at least I’d kept the yoga pants on if I did have to get her.

I could reach my cell phone, but my entire family is out of range. Who else can I call? No one. It’s too embarrassing to call anyone else. Maybe I should just pull the top back down, buy it and wear it out of the store. Then when I get home I can cut it off.  OK, that’s what I’m doing.

The store closes in 15 minutes. How long have I been in here? 20 minutes? 30 minutes? What if nice dressing room girl comes busting in here to check on me? Uh-oh. I could hear her unlocking dressing room doors. That spurred me on.

One last try. If it doesn’t come off, I’ll go with the buy it now, cut it off later solution. Sitting down, I bent at the waist, rolled my left shoulder forward, reached over it with my right arm and pulled hard. Movement, at last! It creeped up a quarter of an inch, a half an inch, and then I popped out. Free!

I did a happy dance, and breathed deeply! I threw my clothes back on, gathered up the two piles of new clothes—guess which pile the yoga top was in, waved good-bye to the security camera, and bolted from the dressing room.

I have now instituted a new shopping policy. All yoga tops and sports bras will be purchased in multiple sizes, and tried on in the comfort of my home. Those items that do not fit will be returned to the store in a timely fashion. Who knew shopping alone could hold such dangerous embarrassment potential?

Laura Keolanui Stark is writing this in comfortable loose clothing. When she went to Old Navy’s website to get a picture of the strangling yoga top, she noticed that several reviews gave this item only 1 or 2 stars and said things like, “it’s a tourniquet. . . if you get it on, you may never get it off. . .needed help getting it off” so she doesn’t feel so bad now about her sticky situation. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.