Roughly 11 months ago the dress fit beautifully. A soft burgundy corduroy with a paisley print in shades of periwinkle, cream, raspberry, and gold. The dress had longer sleeves that fell just above the elbows, and a nice hourglass shape to accentuate her small waist followed by a flared skirt to gracefully conceal her curvy lower half. She looked classy and whimsical. The dress was of a modest length and the upper half showed no skin below her neck. A versatile piece to wear to work or for special occasions. 100% guaranteed to receive compliments.
But now it was a monstrosity. Now, after nearly a year’s worth of heavy strength training, her biceps and shoulders had grown substantially. She’d decided one day to wear the dress to work, only to find herself in a troubling situation. The sleeves made her nervous as she yanked them over her muscular arms, with no extra stretch in the fabric. She had almost decided not to even finish putting the dress on at that point, just give up and let it go. But she persevered. And this is what made her late to work, as she knew she’d made a huge mistake after the dress was on and it fit perfectly everywhere except her arms, which were screaming now because their circulation was cut off, and how in the hell would she be able to get this damn thing off without cutting the sleeves?
Ten minutes later, the dress was pulled off halfway, the bottom half over her head. And she shrugged, and wiggled, and cursed, and gyrated with all her might, even flapping her arms like a mad duck at one point, before nearly panicking and calling someone for help. But little by little, the inverted frock released its death grip, inching off, until she was free. In the corner of her bedroom, an old grey cat laughed to himself. He was glad she hadn’t died in the dress, though, because his food bowl was at that critical point when you could see the bottom.