Wardrobe malfunction

Living

Diary of a home bird
Ciara Galvin

I ABSOLUTELY adore getting new things. Clothes, shoes, jewellery. You just can’t beat the satisfaction of ripping a tag off a new item knowing it now belongs to you.
Unlike most women, I absolutely hate the process of acquiring these new items. You heard me, I hate shopping. It’s the middle man I’d love to cut out for good, which is why online shopping is my friend.
Other than the fact that online shopping feels like getting a present from yourself every time a delivery arrives, it also completely does away with the pitfalls you can encounter while shopping.
For one thing, you don’t have to try the thing on – while this might seem like a problem, I see it as a plus. If it arrives in the ‘wrong size’ (nothing to do with the extra weight you put on – it’s the manufacturer’s fault) you can squeeze into it in the comfort of your own home without worrying about occupying a fitting room for 20 minutes.
Recently, after purchasing an ‘investment piece’ (a nice way of saying ‘you spent way too much on something and you’ll be surviving on beans on toast for the foreseeable future’) I couldn’t help myself the following week, and went to buy a few more new things.
The ‘investment’ coat, worth more than, well, probably my car at this stage, is now tucked away in the wardrobe for good occasions, like, ah, Christmas and events held in extremely sanitised areas.
The next item I bought, I kind of felt obliged to buy. Why? Well, because I thought I would have to get the fire brigade out to cut me out of it and I purchased it fearing I damaged it.
It was a black and white shirt type dress I thought would be nice for a night out. Guilt ridden about the previous week’s purchase, I talked myself into picking it up ‘just to try on’.
Pulling it over my head in the fitting room, I thought I had got caught up in some sort of belt around my chest. I patted around to locate the malfunction. A minute later, panic began to set in.
All women know that moment of panic in a changing room, when your hands are at each side of your head and you’re flailing about like a marooned swimmer in the middle of an ocean, knowing something could rip at any moment.
Despite nearly dislocating my shoulder in the attempts to free myself, I came out of it relatively unscathed. Upon surveying the garment, the problem became readily apparent. I had impressively and stupidly managed to fit my entire body into the left leg of a playsuit.
For those not familiar with a playsuit it’s an all-in-one top and shorts. Einstein here got stuck in one of the legs. Exiting the dressing room a little flushed in the cheeks, I said I better buy it in case I had caused some damage to it.
At the tills I cursed my luck and thought about the €30 I really shouldn’t be about to spend, only to be told by the cashier that it had been reduced by more than half price.
The retail gods obviously saw my struggle and took pity on me.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.