I hope that this will be the conclusion of the Dress Debacle. Really. I hope. With all my heart.
I conquered my fears today.
I went back to the tailor.
GASP! Oh no, she didn’t.
Yes. I did.
On my own. Without the hubby.
Here’s why I went back.
I finally got two new pairs of jeans. And even though the tag said short and the salesgirl assured me they were short, I’d have to wear high heels with them in order for them not to drag. Really high heels. The kind I don’t own. They’re called stilts. So I needed these jeans hemmed. Obviously.
Well, I don’t hem. No one ever taught me. I still don’t know how to sew a button onto a shirt. The hubby does that for me. I don’t even think Home Economics was offered at my school. Instead, I took typing and careers. Typing has really come in handy, let me tell you (and let’s not forget my obsessive compulsive disorder to type on my legs that a lot of you are afflicted with, too). Me? Sew? No.
In order to get my new jeans hemmed, I had to go back to the tailor. I had to face him.
I did think about shoving the dress into the deepest part of my closet and forgetting about it . . . that way, I could take my jeans to get hemmed and all would be well.
But the hubby insisted I return the dress for a redo. INSISTED. And because I need him for button sewing, I relented.
Today was the day, I decided. Gulp. Today was the day. Hubby wasn’t able to come. Turns out he was volunteering for our church food bank. I mean, really. When push comes to shove, my hubby chooses people in need. I tell ya.
I did a lot of deep breathing exercises. And a little bit of stretching. You just never know.
I zoomed into a dressing room with the jeans and the dress as soon as I got there. I tried to make the dress as little as possible so the tailor wouldn’t see it.
When I came out wearing the too-long jeans, Mr. Russian Tailor said, “What’s going on with the dress?” Or something along those lines. I forget now. I was in such a panic that the sweat perforated my forehead and got into my brain and now I can’t remember. He saw the dress?! HE SAW THE DRESS.
“Um, well . . . you see . . . um, these jeans are too long,” I answered.
He measured the jeans. Made a chalk line about two feet up. Repeated, “Is there something wrong with the dress?”
“Well, the thing is . . . ” What was the thing? Gulp. Clear throat. “The, um, the zipper . . . doesn’treallylayflat.”
He said, “Oh no.”
It took everything in me not to run (well, that, and the fact that those jeans were dangerously long and I could have killed myself if I had run in them).
He asked me to try the dress on for him.
So I did.
And the zipper was still catty wompus. I have to admit I was afraid it would be like taking my car to the mechanic and it wouldn’t make that noise anymore. I was afraid the zipper would be all good, and smooth, and I would look like a fool. Not so.
Mr. Russian Tailor shook his head. Pulled the dress. Pinched the dress. Smoothed the dress. I may have been a little bit molested, but I wasn’t going to say one word, I can tell you that.
He said he would do everything he could to fix it.
I went back into the dressing room, changed, and emerged with my head down. I couldn’t look at him.
“Take as much time as you need on the dress,” I said.
He said, “I’m so sorry it wasn’t perfect.”
I’m so sorry it wasn’t perfect.
Kill me now.
I felt awful. Just awful.
So I apologized.
He said not to.
I did, anyway.
Then he did.
We generally had a big ole sob fest, people.
But I did it. And now it’s over.
Let’s hope I never ever have to do that again. I’m pretty sure my cardiologist wouldn’t recommend it.