Remember the size 4 skirt that I slithered into the other day?
Since size 8s are now voluminous and 6s roomy (don't hate me), I was forced to go back into the archives of my closet for smaller sizes. You're probably wondering why I even bother to store these ancient relics. But the quality of the fabric and cut of this classic skirt were too exquisite to toss into the Goodwill pile.
I was delighted when I slid into the skirt, and the zipper effortlessly reached its apex. And even more delighted when I glanced in the mirror and saw no "muffin tops" protruding over the waistband.
But when it came time to take the skirt off, the zipper wouldn't budge. I tried gentle prodding. I tried forceful tugging. I tried soap. When George came home, I taunted, "You have to get this skirt off of me." He tried to rip it off with a pair of needle-nose pliers, but the mission failed. I refused to let him attack with a pair of scissors.
I had no choice: I slept in the skirt with a plan to visit my dry cleaners/tailors the next day for assistance. But I didn't have time to do that before my early morning appointment at CoH.
I waltzed into the CoH looking more glam than usual with my unrumpled, wool-crepe pencil skirt, a black cowl-collared top recently purchased from Banana Republic and a pair of high-heeled pumps.
When someone pressed me about why I was so "dressed up," I skirted the issue and mumbled something about an imaginary meeting with an imaginary client.
On the way back from CoH, I stopped in at our dry cleaners/tailors, a small shop run by three generations of the same family. The youngest family member, who looks to be around 20 years old, greeted me. I explained my predicament. He translated my predicament from English to Armenian to his grandfather/tailor. Grandpa immediately expressed concern about what I would wear out of the shop. I assured him that I'd hold on to the skirt, make a mad dash to my car and then head straight home.
Grandpa attacked my stubborn zipper with the same type of needle-nose pliers that George had used the night before. But he, apparently, had more experience in helping women get out of their skirts. After five minutes of wrangling, I was free of the oppressive garment.
Then the grandson just had to ask, "So, when did you discover the zipper was stuck?" I confessed the whole story about sleeping in the skirt.
"But, hey, this is a dry cleaners. You must hear all kinds of embarrassing stories," I teased.
"Yes," the grandson replied. "And we will now officially add you to our wall of shame."
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