Injured by Romper

Physical trauma happens here

In an effort to purchase one of those cute t-shirt style dresses that every single woman in my office is wearing, I head to Target, where they all claim to have bought theirs (which I am now pretty sure is a lie). I rummage past the sparkly hot pants in the children's section and squeeze through the crowd of 90 year old women browsing for bathing suits. And there it is - a small corner of the store with hundreds of dresses. None are in my size and I hate the colors, but I am on a mission. I take roughly 30 of them into the dressing room. Panic begins.

None of them make me look good. All of them made me look pregnant. I am a pretty small girl, but I slide one of these on and look like I am carrying twins. The Target lighting is making me look a million years old, I am hungry, and the girl in the dressing room next to me is speaking loudly on her phone about a date she went on with the mysteriously named "T" and why he hasn't called her. I bravely work through the pile of dresses and suppress the temping temper tantrum that is bubbling beneath the surface.

The last dress, a flowered number with a wide black elastic "belt" is going to top off the reject pile, if only I can get it off. As stretchy as it is, there's just no way to fit my arms back through the sleeves. Were I in the company of my husband, or friends, or even a dressing room attendant, I would have held my arms above my head and had them peel the dress off, as you would with a small child. There is no help to be found. Instead, I struggle, turning bright red, sweating, talking to myself. "Come on, Betsy, you can do this. Stop hyperventilating. The dress went on, it will come off. You are a 30-year old, smart, together lady. You can do this!" 5 minutes go by, in which I consider a variety of options, including having Jared leave work to rescue me, buying the dress and wearing it home so I can cut it off of myself, and asking "T"'s lady friend to undress me. With one last contortion, I extricate myself.

And then. The muscle just inside my right shoulder, above my boobs (pectoral?), begins to twinge. I leave the store in a cloud of no-dress despair, bound for internet shopping and alcohol. That night I notice I am having sharp pains in my chest. Jared insists that it's heartburn (it's possible I had a fried pickle burger for dinner), but I know it is a muscle thing. I think back to my day. Had I played rugby? Gone on a 10-mile hike? Done something other than watch DVR'd episodes of The Real Housewives of NYC? YES! It was the pain that began upon removing the evil dress! I triumphantly explain this to Jared, thrilled that we can now bond over our war wounds together. He once ran 1/2 a marathon on a stress fracture, and now I know his pain. As I share the story of my injury with him, the strangest expression overtakes his face. Sympathy? Pride at my stiff upper lip?

Cue laughter. "You hurt yourself taking off clothes? How many years have you been dressing yourself for?" He has seemingly no compassion for my trial. I am forced to suffer in silence, and hide the heating pad and Advil from his judging eyes for a week.

PS: I just used the google to try and find a picture of the dress; it seems that it's (1) from the Juniors department and (2) called a romper. Perhaps the blame for my injury rests with me, much like an overly confident Olympic skier who attempts a risky jump and breaks a leg. I vow to stop being a hotshot shopper, for my own personal safety.