Sometimes you just can't take your clothes off fast enough

It is now India hot in DC. And I do know what I'm talking about.

I happen to love this really humid, hot, sticky DC summer weather. This weather makes me feel alive. But I like it best when I'm wearing little sundresses, or running clothes, or whatever you can move freely in and sweat like crazy and not care.

Yesterday I had on a white cotton skirt with lining and a lightweight but long sleeve pink knit shirt. Cute outfit, summery-looking. But, I learned, heat-trapping and sweaty. And so, after my 20-minute walk home from work, I was a soggy mess sweltering through the front door of my building.

I checked mail and had a bill from Citibank - the charges from those rat bastards who stole my wallet. You know, the ones who spent $725.42 at Giant within 45 minutes of stealing my card. Uncreative but impressively fast dickheads. But anyway.

So I got the bill out of the mailbox and called Citibank immediately.

Shockingly, I had gotten an actual person on the line before I got inside my apartment. And realized that I HAD to take off my clothes THAT SECOND. I couldn't have that suffocating outfit on one more instant.

I felt stuck! Stuck in my clothes! Stuck! Like, panic trapped stuck! The built-in slip of the skirt was absolutely glued to my legs. I couldn't breathe! I could not stand to have those steaming hot clothes touching my skin.

And so I was trying to talk to, oh, Dave might have been his name, without letting on that I was about to have a screaming fit then and there.

I unzipped the skirt and pulled and it was holding firmly to my thighs. I literally had to do a little dance to unstick it and peel it off. I nearly fell over trying to get out of it.

And so there I was stumbling around my living room, trying frantically to undress while attempting to discuss the stolen card and how to deal with the charges. Completely preoccupied but pretending to be a normal human being on the phone. Which is something I have had trouble with before.

And the stupid pink shirt, which actually is a shirt I really like, and so I'm glad I didn't find the scissors in my desperation, was so hot and damp and stuck, clinging to my skin, stuck stuck stuck! Stuck is clearly the key concept here.

I felt like I was drowning in a sea of stretchy synthetic pink quicksand. I was seriously thinking oh, my god, if I cannot get this shirt off in the next two seconds I am going to Lose. My. Shit. It needs to be off OFF OFF! NOW NOW NOW!

And I wanted to throw the phone on the floor and use both hands. But there was Dave. Who was being very helpful. And obviously, it behooves me not to have those Citibank folks think I'm a raving lunatic.

I was trying to keep a level tone giving him my card number. While struggling desperately with my shirt.

And so I had the phone between my ear and my shoulder, and I was pulling frantically on the sleeve.

"Yes, that's correct. And this is the card that was stolen on, um. . ."

The panic was rising. Because I only had one hand to take off this pink shirt that had suddenly turned into an octopus. How how how to get out of all swirling eight arms that were clinging to my skin like suction cups?

Can't get the sleeve off! Goddammit! Must get the sleeve off. Clutch at end of sleeve. Pull.

"Um. . ."

It's clinging. I'm sweating like crazy. What if I suffocate? I might suffocate! I might suffocate and die in this brutal pink shirt and fall over and that will be that. At least I have on nice underwear. Because some of those police and firemen are really cute. (Which, I realize now, won't matter if I'm dead. But rationality? Not part of this process. In case you couldn't tell.)

"On? May?"

May what? Pull, goddammit! Sleeve! Off!

"10th?"

I flail a bit. I am probably panting in his ear. I have no idea.

And he asks me if I've gotten a form in the mail.

"The form." Christ, the form! Where's the form? How can I think? Gaaaaaa! Pull!

And finally! The arm comes out of the sleeve! Clearly I'm going to make it.

"Yes! OK! I fill out the form!"

I pull the drenched shirt over my head!

"Yes! Have it notarized!"

And peel off the other sleeve. I can breathe!

"And fax it back. Yes. . . Thank you yes. . . YES!"

That was close.