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I’ve had a few weird things happen while thrifting. There have been vintage dresses that were near impossible to remove from my body without having to relocate both of my shoulders. I’ve had near panic attacks during such episodes where I fear running out of the fitting room, a deformed thrift monster, dress stuck, arms pinned firmly above my head, a headless, blind, trapped, terrified creature bumping into walls all the while screaming,

“GET THIS F’ING THING OFF ME!!!“

There have been dresses that create a quadro boob, getting stuck just below or above the boob shelf, refusing to budge. Thank heavens boobs are adjustable, although that was far from a pain free removable as I remember and I needed help from a friend to escape.

Of course I’ve had the occasional zipper that gets stuck in which case I’m not above coming out of the fitting room and asking for help. Shame is a useless emotion when thrifting. Get over it.

I’ve had stuck zippers on skirts that had to be cut off me in the fitting room at Anthropologie in NYC by two hottie guys.

Most recently I had a fight with a pair of boots.

These boots to be precise.

My Wardrobe Malfunction – The Perils Of Thrifting

They look innocent enough right?

I tried them on and although they were a titch tight on my man-cows (very large calves) it wasn’t worse than any other boots I’ve tried on before.

That is until I tried to remove them at which point one of boots decided they weren’t prepared to let me go. The zipper was stuck. As in, it won’t budge, at all, stuck. I tried and tried in the fitting room to move it a little bit. Nope. Not moving.

I came out of the fitting room after trying for five minutes on my own and breathlessly exclaimed,

“I have a “boot emergency!”

The cashier seemed totally non plussed by the whole thing,

“Okay honey,” she cooed and then went on about her business.

Ummm….hello?! That means I need help lady!

So I tried again this time with a bit more force,

“Like, no, I need help. My foot is stuck and it won’t come out. For real!“

Suddenly realizing that I was beginning to panic she clued into my predicament and searched around for some pliers for me to try.

I tried.

Nope, not helping.

Eventually after watching me helplessly struggle on my own for another five minutes she finally gave in and decided to assist me.

She was a considerable woman and she couldn’t make the zipper budge.

By this time some other customers empathizing over my predicament also tried their hand at moving the zipper.

Nope.

One then suggested that I might consider buying the boots only so I could cut it off my leg.

Not an option.

It wasn’t my fault the zipper got stuck!

I wasn’t giving up.

One gal gave it her best shot, she was making some headway and then the entire zipper pull just snapped off completely. She fell backwards with the force.

No one was happy.

I was really stuck now.

Let’s be clear, I did not like the boots enough to wear them the rest of my life.

My determination set in. Another customer agreed to tug at the boot while I endeavoured to mentally force my leg and foot to shrink all the while pulling in the opposite direction.

The pleather did stretch some, my foot was now painfully wedged in the narrow ankle section of the boot.

Progress!

The friendly woman that was helping me decided it wasn’t a good idea to continue when some other customer mentioned that she might break my foot in the process.

Nice.

Thanks for the vote of confidence!

It was left to me, alone.

I was determined. I didn’t want that pair of boots. Heck I didn’t even like them anymore, I despised those damn boots.

I was covered in sweat.

It was going to happen.

Grunting, pulling, straining and tightening.

It.

was.

going.

to.

come.