Death by Chiffon…Almost

A number of years ago, I was in the market for a formal dress. It was during the COVID shut-downs, so I did my shopping online. I ordered a handful of gowns to try on. One of them had this lovely lace-up detail down the back instead of a zipper. Very classy. Very romantic. Very much designed for assistance with getting into it – think Gone-With-the Wind’s-Scarlett-O’Hara-holding-the-bedpost-while-someone-tightens-her-corset kind of design. Gorgeous…clearly, I was born in the wrong decade.

At the time, since I lived alone, no one was available to assist in lacing up the back, so I thought to myself, “I can do this.” (That’s usually where my plans go awry!) The plan was to lace it up loosely, slip it over my head, then pull up on the laces to cinch it up. (Being a bit pear-shaped, stepping into it was not an option.) With my arms over my head, trying to make myself as narrow as possible, I inched it down further and further, realizing much too late that it wasn’t going to fit.

I. Was. Stuck.

The chiffon had me wrapped tighter than a burrito. Arms flailing overhead, shoulders and bust trapped, dignity slipping fast, I tried pulling it back up – nope! I didn't have enough leverage to pull hard enough and I couldn't tug it down. Now I can’t breathe, and my brain decides this is the moment to imagine my obituary: “She died as she lived: dramatic, surrounded by chiffon, discovered by horrified paramedics with her derriere on full display.”

At this point, I think maybe I can just twist it around and undo the laces. That’s when I discover, mixed up in this fabric, trying to turn it around is akin to cross threading a bolt; the more I tried, the tighter it got. Full-on panic set in. I was frantically trying to figure out an escape plan that didn’t involve calling my sister to confess, ‘So… I did a thing.’

I consider the unthinkable: scissors. I had no choice. In the kitchen, I try not to give myself an accidental haircut as I start hacking away at the bodice that's gripping me like I've been vacuum-sealed for freshness. Snip by snip, tiny sequins rain to the floor, the cat chasing them like confetti. Beautiful dress destroyed, dignity mostly intact. Breathing restored. All I can think is, “Thank God, nobody saw that.”

Ridiculous, yes, but that breathless, can’t-get-free panic isn’t limited to fancy dresses. In the wake of loss, it’s easy to find yourself stuck; trapped in layers of memory, sadness, and sheer overwhelm. You panic, you thrash, you imagine the worst outcomes. And sometimes the only way out feels destructive. You cut through something you hoped to keep intact, whether it’s an old plan, a tradition, or a dream.

But here’s the takeaway: once you cut yourself free, you can breathe again. It won’t necessarily be pretty. It might leave scraps of chiffon on the kitchen floor, scissors abandoned like a crime scene, and a cat sprinting down the hall with sequins stuck to its paw, but breathing is the win.

The scissors, of course, are not literal. They are those tough decisions you never wanted to make, the subscription you cancel because money is tight, the tradition you set aside because it hurts too much, the phone call to a creditor or a friend that feels awkward but necessary. Cutting through those knots doesn’t look elegant, but it clears just enough space to breathe.

Life will hand you “zipper moments” eventually: the easier ways through, the days that slide into place without much effort. Until then, there’s no shame in grabbing the scissors.

Sometimes the only way out of the mess is through it, one awkward snip at a time. And if the path looks less like a runway and more like a fabric explosion, so be it…you’re still free.