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Yesterday, on my way home from a client meeting, I stopped by Target to pick up a few grocery items. As usual I took the long way through the clothing.

I’m always on the hunt for cheap, white tee-shirts to replace the coffee stained ones that fill my closet. I snagged a couple and headed to the dressing room. Having the world’s smallest chest makes shopping rather difficult. Usually a size small fits perfectly, but apparently Target decided to turn into a complete jackhole and started making the chest circumference bigger, and the arms much, much smaller.

I managed to get stuck inside a fucking tee-shirt.

I was trying to wrestle the shirt from my body when I heard the woman in the next dressing room ask, “Are you OK?” She sounded annoyed so I assumed she was talking to the child with her, and continued operation remove shirt from ham arm.

A minute later she knocked on my stall and asked again, “Are you OK in there? Do you need medical attention? I’m a nurse, or I can call someone for you.”

What the WHAT?

“One second,” I replied as I hurriedly gave the shirt one final tug. I heard the combination of fabric ripping and a grunting sound. Oh my God. No wonder she was concerned. I sounded like an 80-year-old constipated man, or a teenager giving birth to a secret baby.

I cracked the dressing door room open so she could see that I was OK, and not giving birth to an unwanted child that I would later abandon on the junk food isle. She looked relieved, apologized and left.

Thank God, because I didn’t really have time for pleasantries. I needed to hurry home and start the process of finding a plastic surgeon to move my arm fat into my boobs. It’s not really plastic surgery, it’s an all-natural body shift.