Forever 21, Not Forever 61

Wardrobe malfunctions used to mean a missing button, a slightly damaged hem or a bit of static cling. But in my world at this age, a ‘clothing mishap’ means something very different, namely being completely, inexplicably trapped by my own outfit in a public place with no rescue plan in sight. Although this particular phenomenon can happen to anyone, I’ve now found that, at this stage of the game,  with portions of my wardrobe, it’s begun happening to me with uncomfortable regularity.

I am speaking about being trapped in clothing.

The first time it happened, I was with a dear friend. She maintained the body she had in her twenties, which is impressive and rude. We were in a Forever 21 store, of all places, where she was buying something for her daughter, when she stumbled upon a dress that was, against all odds, strangely age-appropriate. Not teenage-appropriate like “who raised you?” appropriate. It was an actual wearable piece, devoid of any indication that it couldn’t be for a more mature demographic.

She found it in both our sizes, which was a sign from the universe all unto itself, seeing she’s at one end of the pendulum when it comes to sizes and me at the other, and, because I am still available for bad decisions, I agreed to try it on. I can confirm that there is a reason they call it Forever 21, not Forever 61.

Now the sundress went on easily enough, which is how it immediately gained my trust. It was simple, flattering, harmless-looking. It was the sort of dress that says, “I’m breezy.” Like you’d see in a sanitary napkin commercial running through a field with no visible responsibilities. Breezy, optimistic, and wildly overconfident about what a woman’s body is willing to do. But it failed to mention that it had no exit strategy. It was when I tried to remove it that the trouble began. I initially thought there was an unzipped zipper somewhere, as no proper garment would lock a woman in her sixties without a way out. But I found no zipper, clasp, or escape, no ventilation panels, only a tight bodice and the realization that I shouldn’t have tried it on. It belonged to my younger self who, in 1975, could have tossed it over her head while drinking Tab and rockin to Fleetwood Mac.

This was different. This was a new-century problem. A Twilight Zone series episode in which a claustrophobic woman is suddenly held hostage by rayon. The world of fast fashion does not make thoughtful design allowances, such as elastics, extra clasps, or zippers. Nada.

I’ve also come to realize that, as you age, there comes a point when your body stops being a body and becomes a committee. Your shoulder has an opinion. Your neck has concerns. Your lower back would like everything tabled until next week. The arms, which once moved independently and with enthusiasm, now require advance notice, perhaps a warm-up period, and some space to flap.

I tried the old moves. The graceful overhead lift. The twist-and-shimmy. The one-arm escape. Nothing worked. The dress actually began to tighten its grip, as if it had legal representation with each move. Not quite out of nowhere, panic began to set in. Not dramatic panic,  but more like mature rational panic. The kind where your body temperature begins to rise, and you’re sweating quietly in a fitting room, trying not to call for help because you want there to remain at least a shred of dignity still in the room, even if it’s just barely.

And that is one of the great surprises of aging. It is not just that your body changes. It is that your body stops participating in certain negotiations. It no longer says, “Sure, we can get out of this.” It says, “You got us into this, girl, and frankly, we’re interested to see how it plays out.” I let out a ‘help’ repeatedly, embarrassed and in surrender, muffled by the layers of scrunched fabric around my head and shoulders. It was only after a series of movements I could describe as interpretive wrestling that I finally freed myself. The dress dared to sashay as it landed on the floor, innocent-looking once again and not as a garment that just tried to end me in a fitting room under fluorescent lighting.

I suspiciously hung it back up with the quiet respect one gives to a worthy opponent, as its daisies and floral pattern might as well have been military camouflage in how it tackled me. My friend, on the other hand, naturally, looked fabulous in hers and slipped it on and off with the grace of a feather.

And this incident has not only happened with dresses. It’s happened with boots, where I got stuck trying to take them off. In my youth, boots slipped on and off like a casual agreement between fashion and bone structure. Now, my arches behave like bridges opening in a canal and my calves are like customs agents with power issues. Everything stops. Traffic backs up. Someone has to be called in. There I am, one leg in the air, gripping the back of a chair, while another adult pulls at my foot with the grim determination of someone trying to be released from decorative sausage casing. At a certain point, it is no longer footwear. It’s a rescue operation.

Pants are no different. They offer their own kind of betrayal, except with a sliding scale based on fabric. Some won’t reach past your thighs, which is a cruel message, while others do, with such a poor fit that it’s all the information you don’t want to really know. Some go on fine, giving you false hope in the process only to fit horribly.

The real work begins when you need to take them off. Standing there tugging on one leg, then the other, trying not to lose your balance, which is already compromised, while the waistband twists, the fabric tightens, and your feet suddenly become the most powerful part of your body as you balance. Your days of being a contortionist are forever gone, and getting out of jeans, leggings, or any fitted pants can feel less like undressing and more like shedding a wetsuit that isn’t your size.

By the time they finally reach your ankles, you are overheated, most likely passed wind, slightly humbled, and seriously reconsidering every clothing decision you have ever made. It can be an Olympic event, but here we are. There comes a moment when dignity, like the waistband, has lost all elasticity as the rest of your body parts couldn’t be bothered to pitch in.

And so the time arrives where you need a whole new wardrobe to comply with the changing physical terrain called your body. Zippers, buttons, stretchy fabric, thank you universe, and whatever else so you can have an easy exit.

Suffice to say, I did not buy the dress. Not because it didn’t fit. Technically, it did. But because we had already had an encounter with each other that was more combative and deceptive than freeing, and at this age I have learned that fit is only half the story. The real question is, can you get out of it without divine intervention? If the answer is no, that is not a sundress for you.

That is a hostage situation.