Trapped Inside My Fancy Dress: One Woman's Harrowing Journey
It is summer. I can tell because the summer opera season has started and I have already skipped Nixon in China and seen Atilla. I would propose that the San Francisco opera has chosen to build an entire season around the perils of nationalism, but I think that next week is The Magic Flute. Atilla is a little ridiculous. Ask not why the Golden Hoarde worships Odin. Ask not why Odabella has a sword to the title character's throat at the beginning of the first act and somehow does not kill him for another two hours. Do not ask why the third act takes place in a decrepit movie theater. Verdi is not a complicated man. He would have wanted you to sit back and enjoy the pretty, pretty singing. Just be glad this opera does not include even one completely inexplicable case of mistaken identity.
And so I came home to Bunker 2, merrily humming something with a lot of impassioned lyrics about vengeance. Since it wasn't even midnight, I entertained the notion that I might change my dress, swap my tottering James Jean heels for comfortable dancing boots, apply a little more eyeliner, and hit Cat Club, where I'd heard they were playing nothing but 4AD bands all night. So I removed my heels, reached for the zipper at the back on my dress and immediately encountered a problem: the zipper tab on my dress was in exactly the one spot on my back I could not reach. On the way out of the house, I'd had J zip me up, but now J was at a concert or a club or a party somewhere I was trapped inside my fancy dress. I immediately pass through the following phases:
Phase 1: I can totally reach that spot. I just need to twist my arm just so. Surely years of aerial circus arts have not impeded my shoulder flexibility. Maybe if I stand on my tiptoes. Maybe if I hop up and down. Oooh...I can feel the edge of the zipper tab...no.
Phase 2: It's a problem with this stupid dress. The zipper is stuck. It's in the wrong place. This fabric has no give. Why did I decide to wear such a tight dress in the first place? Has this dress gotten tighter since the last time I wore it? If I just pull the front up I can pull the back down an inch or two...no.
Phase 3: I am going to be stuck in this dress until J comes home, aren't I? I am going to fall asleep in this ridiculous embroidered thing. I might as well take off my petticoat. And while I'm at it, I'll post to the Internet. Surely I am not the first of my friends to have faced this problem. They will have suggestions...no.
Phase 4: I don't know what kind of dresses my friends think I wear to the opera, but I am unlikely to get myself out of this dress by setting it on fire. Furthermore, I am not yet willing to sacrifice my opera dress to the sartorial gods by cutting myself out of it. There are suggestions that involve clothes hangars and crochet hooks, none of which make any sense to me. I don't even own a crochet hook...no.
Phase 5: All of this wiggling around appears to have loosened up my shoulders. If I just arch my back at this ridiculous angle and hop up and down some more I can almost...almost...yes! I achieve freedom with only minor damage to my dignity.
Phase 6: I post to the Internet. My friends are disappointed that I have not set anything on fire. Because it has taken me almost an hour to get out of my dress, it is now too late to go to the nightclub.
My dress unscathed and my evening plans in ruins, I spend the rest of the night sitting around the house in my underwear, playing Scrabble. Yes, summer has truly arrived.
And so I came home to Bunker 2, merrily humming something with a lot of impassioned lyrics about vengeance. Since it wasn't even midnight, I entertained the notion that I might change my dress, swap my tottering James Jean heels for comfortable dancing boots, apply a little more eyeliner, and hit Cat Club, where I'd heard they were playing nothing but 4AD bands all night. So I removed my heels, reached for the zipper at the back on my dress and immediately encountered a problem: the zipper tab on my dress was in exactly the one spot on my back I could not reach. On the way out of the house, I'd had J zip me up, but now J was at a concert or a club or a party somewhere I was trapped inside my fancy dress. I immediately pass through the following phases:
Phase 1: I can totally reach that spot. I just need to twist my arm just so. Surely years of aerial circus arts have not impeded my shoulder flexibility. Maybe if I stand on my tiptoes. Maybe if I hop up and down. Oooh...I can feel the edge of the zipper tab...no.
Phase 2: It's a problem with this stupid dress. The zipper is stuck. It's in the wrong place. This fabric has no give. Why did I decide to wear such a tight dress in the first place? Has this dress gotten tighter since the last time I wore it? If I just pull the front up I can pull the back down an inch or two...no.
Phase 3: I am going to be stuck in this dress until J comes home, aren't I? I am going to fall asleep in this ridiculous embroidered thing. I might as well take off my petticoat. And while I'm at it, I'll post to the Internet. Surely I am not the first of my friends to have faced this problem. They will have suggestions...no.
Phase 4: I don't know what kind of dresses my friends think I wear to the opera, but I am unlikely to get myself out of this dress by setting it on fire. Furthermore, I am not yet willing to sacrifice my opera dress to the sartorial gods by cutting myself out of it. There are suggestions that involve clothes hangars and crochet hooks, none of which make any sense to me. I don't even own a crochet hook...no.
Phase 5: All of this wiggling around appears to have loosened up my shoulders. If I just arch my back at this ridiculous angle and hop up and down some more I can almost...almost...yes! I achieve freedom with only minor damage to my dignity.
Phase 6: I post to the Internet. My friends are disappointed that I have not set anything on fire. Because it has taken me almost an hour to get out of my dress, it is now too late to go to the nightclub.
My dress unscathed and my evening plans in ruins, I spend the rest of the night sitting around the house in my underwear, playing Scrabble. Yes, summer has truly arrived.