The Fitting Room

It is now 5:50 pm. Five minutes since I last peered at the clock. All of the unwanted clothes are hung and separated according to it’s collection label. But the woman in front of me is upset the size 6 super slim European cut style pants she wants, choked her upper thighs. In a tiring battle to remove them, the pants clung to her kneecaps, and sucked on her ankles, fighting their fateful destiny, eternity on a hanger. The self-proclaimed 6, is now in need of a size 8. She will most likely need a size 12. I suggest a pair of 10’s nearby. But she’s not “that big!”.

“I’m sorry miss, the clothes here are just cut really small. I can…”

“You’re tiny!”

Right. So no way I can understand that she can’t squeeze her curvy figure into a pair of too tight pants. I’m a 2, but because I’m thin, a size 0 couldn’t possibly be too small for me. Now we are locked in a silent war of skinny versus average size. I am the enemy, clueless of the severity of her situation because I’m a slender woman by American standards, and thus incapable of experiencing any problems that resemble her own. She is considered the average size by American standards, and now also considered fat according to her current thoughts that I wish I couldn’t read.

My only other guilt relieving option is to call another store location, or offer a similar item. But I am zoned, unable to leave the fitting room area. Now I have to avoid the embarrassment of explaining that I, a grown up, can’t leave the stench filled space without permission from another adult. I call for an available associate to assist her by way of my god forsaken earpiece. Size 6 is now being escorted away along with my anxiety. I’m going to turn on the fan and hope it will whisk away the floating mix of bodily odors, despite the fact that I am freezing. There’s no customers left in here. Just silent sensors, left from silent thieves. I guess I can relax. The abandoned pants in front of me look stressed. But they are cute. I’m going to try them on at 6 when I clock out.