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Addie Bloom, aka a professional baseball batting coach who has made some choices…
So this is it.
This is how I die.
Death by suffocation from being wedged in a formal gown at an upscale boutique, my arms stuck over my head while I try to remove a dress with too-small armholes and absolutely zero give.
I should’ve known.
When the sales associate started using words likesheathandsleek, it should’ve been a clue that this was not the dress for me.
Dress shopping and I aren’t regular acquaintances, but I’m not a newbie at this either. I know better.
There’s a specific type of dress necessary for the woman who was once asked to sub in for the Beast when her high school did theBeauty and the Beastmusical.You’re built right for it, Addie.You have the wide shoulders that fit the costume best.
I know this.
I do.
But the sales person held up that gorgeous shimmery eggplant-hued dress and said, “this will make men salivate at your curves,” and she was so excited that I decided maybe, just maybe, this would work better than the last time I tried asleek sheath.
Making men salivate isn’t my primary goal.
But feeling fancy and beautiful?
Doesn’t every girl need that now and again?
I love how it feels when I find a dress that fits me right. When I can stand in front of a mirror and see everyday baseball-uniform-wearing Addie transformed into feminine Addie with strong curves and killer collarbones and good boobs and a secret soft underside that I generally stifle when I’m at work.
I grunt and try to get a grip on the slippery fabric again, succeeding only in turning in a circle in the small dressing room and banging my hands on one of the walls, the noise reverberating in the small space.
That high school memory doesn’t dissipate despite my work at visualizing myself in the dress that I wore to the Fireballs championship dinner a few months ago, when I looked absolutelyfabulous.
“Hello? Ma’am?”
I didn’t ask the salesclerk her name.
Are they calledsalesclerksat upscale dress boutiques?
And why is it that while I’m rapidly losing my ability to breathe, I’m more worried about if the employees at dress boutiques are calledsalesclerks?
“Get it together, Addie,” I mutter to myself.
Bad idea.
Shouldn’t waste breath talking to myself.
The lower half of this dress is wrapped around my chest. The upper half is holding my arms over my head like it’s a straitjacket. Breathing is becoming harder and harder.
I twist.
I turn.
I contort.
I bang into the wall again, harder this time, and my breath whooshes out of me with another grunt.
