Dressing Down

Dressing Down
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday November 29, 2014

I thought I’d arrived early, but to my dismay I was unfashionably late. A warehouse frock sale waits for no woman. The hall opened at 9. It was now 20 past and the building was heaving with bargain hunters.

I’m normally a prudent shopper, but my commonsense turns to compulsiveness when my favourite brand is discounted by 70-percent. I paused in the doorway to absorb the arresting sight of a hundred women on a shopping assault. A flock of twenty-somethings swooped past me and descended on a table of $20 jeans like seagulls on fish ‘n chips. I scampered over to join them.

A gaggle of trendy mothers, trailing their toddlers, kept up a running commentary as they rifled through a rack of embroidered shirts. “It doesn’t matter if we buy the same one,” called one. “Just ring me before you wear it!” Beside me, two middle-aged women were grousing about the lack of bigger sizes.

Finishing up at the jeans table, I elbowed through the throng and squeezed in beside a leggy exotic-looking woman who was sifting through a rack crammed with silky tops and dresses. In the presence of such lithesome beauty, I felt like a pelican in the company of a flamingo. “Swap?” she said.

I looked at her blankly.

“Swap?” she repeated with a hint of annoyance. I realised she was impatient to exchange places so she could examine the rest of the rack. Feeling stupid, I feigned nonchalance as we side-stepped around each other. She resumed her intense inspection of price tags.

I bent down to pick up a crumpled cream smock, which had slipped from its hanger. I held the dainty thing against me: could it fit?

“Are you going to try that?” said the flamingo, eyeing off my prize.

“I’m not sure. Is it a shirt or a dress?”

“On you, a dress.”

“Oh,” I replied, defeated. “My mini-dress days are over. You try it.”

“Thanks,” she said and added it to the collection of hangers already dangling from a slender hand.

After ten minutes, I’d exhausted my search but a peach-coloured cardigan, some grey jeans and a pastel top were showing promise. I picked my way towards the makeshift changeroom at the back of the hall.

Communal dressing rooms unnerve me. This one had a crude curtain barely shielding us from public view. I staked my claim to a square foot of floorboards, and attempted to undress gracefully. Strangers, stripped to bras and knickers, fussed with zips and buttons.

No-one made eye contact. I tried to avert my gaze from the nudity on parade but short of shutting my eyes, it was impossible. Hopping to remove the pair of cheap but too-tight jeans, I reflected on our different bodies: the taut tummy to my left, the pot-bellied one in front, the one now puckered from pregnancy. I sucked mine in and tried on the cardigan.

Knickered bottoms ranged from scrawny to wobbly, ample to pert. I compared my despised muscly calves with the slender legs attached to the girl beside me. None of us said a word as we wriggled into shirts and dresses and tops and pants. Some fitted. Some felt like tourniquets.

I reached for the pastel top. Lifting my arms, I slipped it over my head. Half way down it jammed around my forehead. I tried to ease the fabric past my ears, but it refused to dilate. Blindsided, I clumsily felt around the neck-hole to locate the button I’d missed. There wasn’t one. Squirming to free myself, I hoisted the shirt off my head and flushed with embarrassment.

“I can’t get my head through the hole!” I wailed.

The girl with the ballerina legs snorted. And with that, we dishevelled women dropped our guard and began to chat.

“Give it to me!” said a petite lady to my right. She looped the shirt over her head where it stuck fast across her eyebrows. I leaned over and helped her tug it free.

“Thank goodness it’s not just me!” I said.

“Nope,” she replied. “I must have a fat head too!”

“How ridiculous!” said the tall woman in the corner as we passed the offending shirt around for inspection. “Now our heads are too big for fashion?!”

“What do you think?” asked the leggy girl. Trying on a lacy dress, she was analysing her reflection in the mirror.

“I’m not sure about this bit,” I said truthfully, pointing to where the fabric billowed around her narrow hips.

“I’m built like a boy!” she moaned, twisting to frown at her rear view. And right there, I realised few women are ever happy with what they’ve got.

But the peach-coloured cardigan made me feel good. It was a steal at 40-bucks. I bought it as compensation for my giant head.