Warning: Change Room Dangers

by Michelle Piller

I hope it is not just my imagination. I cannot help the feeling that, the older I get, the smaller change rooms become. Pokey little boxes designed for little people. People like my mother for example, not quite 5', will never have a problem. Unfortunates like myself, anyone over 5'7, could all be categorized as Amazons. No change room has yet been designed for the likes of us.

Should I so much as stretch out an arm to slip it into a shirt or jacket sleeve, I will have grazed three knuckles and given some signal for a flurry of assistants. These unusual people burst in, regardless of my state of semi-undress, to make sure I did not bring down the walls around them. I quickly assure the girls that, (a): I am fine, (b): I have not managed to knock out a wall and, (c): are they sure that one size fits all?

Taking their leave with much rolling of eyes, I continue the struggle valiantly.

"These pants look nice on," I think to myself, leaning closer to the fun-park mirror.

The awful ripping sound was quite unexpected and I somehow managed to head butt the mirror. Immediately, one hand is used to put pressure to the oncoming bruise in the middle of my forehead. The other hand goes straight to my backside to assess the damage.

At the same time, I try to stand up straight, getting tangled in a heap of clothes on the floor and flail about madly. In a vain attempt to right myself I lean heavily on the walls, kicking my legs out to untangle myself, and promptly stub my toe. Toe stubbage is the final insult and injury that any one person can suffer in a day. I resign myself to the fact that I will have to purchase the torn trousers, and kid myself that with a few butt exercises, they will look fantastic.

I walk out as fast as I can, new purchase tucked under my arm. Sounds of the snickering sales assistants reach my burning ears. Is it such a bad idea to put warning signs on change rooms?

Copyright © Michelle Piller 2003