Thursday night I had a wardrobe malfunction. I had a client dinner, a very important client dinner, and I wanted to look extra nice. So I brought a fancy dress to work to change into before the dinner.
Unfortunately, this particular dress doesn't have the most reliable zipper in the land. And I tugged and tugged. And sucked in my ribcage, and tugged some more. But no luck. The zipper stayed stuck about 4 inches from the top.
So I asked a co-worker to help. And she tugged and tugged. And I sucked and sucked. But still no luck.
A third co-worker joined in the fray. One pulled, one tugged, and I sucked. But still ...
Four. Damn. Inches.
Finally, I cried uncle. That zipper wasn't going anywhere.
With only 20 minute till dinner, I had two choices:
1. Run to the mall and buy the first dress I saw.
2. Fake a sprained or broken arm and keep my left arm pinned to my side for the entire night. (I had a camisole on underneath so it wouldn't have been entirely obscene.)
I went back to my desk, a little heartsick. My carefully laid wardrobe plans in shambles at my high heeled feet.
And there, at my desk, nestled amidst some sticky notes and a stack of scratch paper I spied my stapler.
As I hefted it in my hands I thought, "hmmm. Could I?"
I looked at the 4 inches of camisole.
I considered the longterm damage staples would do to a silk dress.
I shrugged. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
Then, wincing a little, I sucked in my ribcage, and stapled that damn dress shut.
Now that I've been stapled into my clothes I expect my luck is over and I'll have to start breaking my heels doing everyday things and have to use chewing gum to glue them back together. Or close ripped seams with multi-colored binder clips. Or, hell, maybe I'll even have to make a mini-dress woven entirely from paper clips. Those are just the kinds of things enterprising city girls have to learn to do, and I've been lucky for way too long.