29. Become trapped in an article of clothing.

There is simply no reason to believe that your favorite shirt no longer fits. Surely it couldn’t have shrunk over the course of one day. You certainly haven’t put on any weight. And, seeing as how you do not own or workaround any sort of size-altering mechanism á la Wayne Szalinski’s in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, you feel fairly safe from the molecule-altering rays that routinely plague the children of mad scientists.

So why are you now imprisoned inside a poly-cotton blend of pain and confusion?

It started out innocently enough. You came home from work, kicked off your shoes, and proceeded to strip naked. “Pants-optional Friday has begun!” you shout at your dog. You reach up to pull the shirt over your head as you’ve done countless times before, but something is different this time. Your game is off. You’re thrown. Your Finesse-O-Meter is registering somewhere around a paltry 4. (Best money you ever spent.)

Something isn’t stretching in the right way, or you’re feeling a little stiff, or maybe you head has swelled to several times its normal size ever since the Low Ceiling Incident this afternoon. Whatever the case, you just can’t seem to pull that shirt over your noggin. And so the dance commences.

You begin to contort into positions that would make a yoga master blush. You try hunching, arching, and stretching. You start to sway from side to side, perhaps hoping that the constant motion might cause the shirt to simply explode off of your body. Your breathing becomes heavy, labored. Your arms poke comically out of the various shirt orifices, dangling uselessly above your head and groping futilely through the air for some sort of otherwordly assistance from above. You resemble the victim of a terrible automobile accident, provided the automobile in question is a J. Crew truck full of polo shirts.

Now what? Do you rip the shirt? Kill the one article of clothing that hasn’t betrayed you by succumbing to fading, lint, pit stains, or inexplicable odors? Or do you call for help, thereby destroying whatever microscopic particle of self-worth your swaddled body still possesses? The situation is impossible, but one thing is clear: your dog thinks you’re nuts.

So if you want to suck at life, become trapped in an article of clothing. Enjoy the experience of becoming hopelessly tangled, suffocated, and powerless to defend yourself. Should any tickle-happy foes happen to witness your plight, just remember one thing: uncontrollable sobbing and/or urination is nothing to be ashamed of.

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1 Comment »

  1. Lina said

    I wince at the horrible memories that have been drudged up from the depths of my closet. I knew such a “tickle-happy foe,” and he took it upon himself to pod, prod and tickle me until I went running away from him… and into the wall because I couldn’t see. lol

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