The Day I Became a Permanent Fixture at Winners

I went into the changeroom with exactly three shirts and the kind of optimism usually found in people who haven’t yet been betrayed by retail architecture.

This was supposed to take five minutes. Try on shirt. Look in mirror. Question every decision I’ve made since 1997. Put shirt back on hanger. Leave.

Simple.

The first shirt made me look like a decorative throw pillow. The second had apparently been designed for a woman whose shoulders are located somewhere near her ears. The third actually looked pretty good, which immediately made me suspicious.

I changed back into my clothes, gathered everything up and reached for the changeroom door.

Locked.

No problem.

I turned the little knob.

Nothing.

Turned it the other way.

Nothing.

Jiggled it.

Nothing.

I stared at the lock.

The lock stared back.

We both understood that one of us was an idiot, and frankly, I didn’t appreciate its attitude.

I tried again, this time applying the advanced mechanical technique known as “turning it harder.”

Still nothing.

Fine.

I knocked.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I knocked louder.

“HELLO?”

From somewhere outside the changeroom, I heard a woman say, “Someone’s in there.”

Yes, Brenda.

I KNOW.

I AM SOMEONE.

I called out, “Actually, I’m stuck in here!”

Silence.

Then:

“Oh.”

And she walked away.

Thank you, mysterious stranger. Your contribution to the rescue effort will not be forgotten.

I tried the lock again.

Nothing.

At this point, I started assessing my resources.

Three shirts.

One purse.

Half a bottle of water.

A granola bar of questionable age.

I could survive at least until Thursday.

I knocked again.

“EXCUSE ME! I’M STUCK!”

A store employee finally answered.

“Did you unlock the door?”

I looked down at the lock.

“No. I thought I’d just live here now.”

There was a pause.

“Try turning the lock.”

Oh good.

We’re troubleshooting.

I turned it.

Nothing.

“Try pulling the door while you turn it.”

I pulled.

Turned.

Nothing.

“Try pushing it.”

Push.

Turn.

Nothing.

Now another employee had arrived.

Then another customer.

I could hear them discussing the situation outside like I was a raccoon trapped inside someone’s attic.

“Maybe it’s jammed.”

“Could be the hinge.”

“Has this happened before?”

Apparently, I had become an interactive store exhibit.

Meanwhile, I was standing barefoot in a changeroom holding a blouse I no longer wanted because we’d been through too much together.

Someone suggested I crawl underneath the door.

Absolutely not.

There are moments in life when dignity must be abandoned.

This was not yet that moment.

Also, the gap was approximately six inches high.

Unless I suddenly developed the skeletal structure of a ferret, I wasn’t going anywhere.

Then someone suggested climbing over the wall.

I looked up.

The partition was roughly eight feet tall.

Sure.

I’ll just free-climb the changeroom wall, launch myself over the top and drop into Women’s Activewear like Tom Cruise.

At least I’d already tried on an appropriate shirt.

By now, I had been trapped for about ten minutes.

Ten minutes doesn’t sound like a long time until you’re imprisoned beside a full-length mirror.

There is nowhere to look.

Every few seconds, you accidentally make eye contact with yourself.

And eventually your reflection starts looking disappointed.

“This is where we’re at now?” Mirror Me seemed to ask.

Apparently.

Finally, I heard a man’s voice.

“Maintenance.”

Excellent.

The cavalry had arrived.

He tried the door.

It didn’t open.

This was strangely validating.

SEE?

I’M NOT STUPID.

THE DOOR IS STUPID.

He tried again.

Nothing.

Then came the sentence nobody trapped in a small room wants to hear:

“Huh.”

Huh?

What do you mean, HUH?

That’s the sound a mechanic makes right before telling you your car needs $4,800 worth of work.

There was some rattling.

A screwdriver appeared underneath the door.

Then disappeared.

More rattling.

Someone dropped something.

Someone else laughed.

I was beginning to suspect this rescue operation was being sponsored by the Three Stooges.

Then Maintenance Man said, “I’m going to have to force it.”

Do what you must, Gary.

Tell my family I fought bravely.

There was a bang.

Another bang.

Then suddenly the door flew open.

And there I stood.

Shoes off.

Purse on the floor.

Three shirts draped over my arm.

Granola bar in my hand.

Surrounded by approximately six people who had apparently gathered to witness my release back into society.

Nobody clapped.

Which felt rude.

I stepped out with the quiet dignity of a woman who had just survived eleven harrowing minutes in a brightly lit cubicle.

One employee apologized.

Another said, “Wow, that really was stuck.”

THANK YOU.

I put the three shirts back.

Even the good one.

Because after what we’d been through, buying it felt too much like paying ransom.

Then I walked straight out of the store.

I bought nothing.

I accomplished nothing.

I lost twenty minutes of my life.

But I did learn something valuable.

The next time someone asks whether I’d like to use the changeroom, the answer is no.

I’ll buy the clothes.

I’ll take them home.

I’ll try them on there.

And if they don’t fit, I’ll return them like God intended.

Because apparently shopping wasn’t stressful enough.

Now there’s escape-room mode.

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