Seconds after entering the cabin, I heard loud thumping on the door. I ignored it for a while until it continued with extreme urgency. “Wait!” I hollered.
“Ma’am, it’s okay, please go on,” said the sales assistant.
Reassured to go on, I began to disrobe. I had one foot and half an ankle in the pair of new jeans and the knocking resumed. “What the heck is happening?”
“Gobbledegook…gobble-de-gook” were the sounds I could hear; they might have been cuss words. Holding on to the wall, I opened the door slightly and a big-built woman in a purple dress propping a dozen garments on her shoulder motioned me to come out. Her palms pointing up, she curled them inwards and asked me to step out as one would beckon a child, except that her eyes were blazing, her mouth twisted. I showed her a bit of leg hoping to amuse her at least if not convince her of my motives.
She was not. Her come-come gestures went on and she menacingly moved towards the cabin. I quickly shut it and bolted the door. Knock-knock-knock. “What is wrong with you? I need to get this on, then off and something else on before I can step out,” I ventured all the detailed information I could muster the courage to provide. I did not tell her what I tore in the process from my own precious clothes and how my elbows had hurt as they banged into the mirror.
I decided these jeans were not for me. As I left, she grunted and entered what was my space for those few minutes. The assistant apologised. “She cannot understand English; she is Russian.”
But could she not see that there was a whole bloody woman inside showing her legs to her to convey exactly what was happening within the confines of that little room? If she had reached this far and knew there was something like a trial room, then she ought to know what activities take place and there would be others doing what she wanted to do?
I rarely use changing rooms; they smell, are too small, and if I don’t know what fits if I see it, then I don’t deserve to fit into it anyway. These pair of jeans seemed a bit deceptive. It was also about more than size. I wanted to check out how they’d look with what I had on, since it was the kind of blouse/shirt I usually wear.
The few times I have used trial rooms, I have seen clothes hanging, people having tried different things and discarded them, or empty hangers left bereft. The mirror reflects it all, and then me. On trial like the rest.