And I have no one to blame but myself.
Today, I went by the theatre to retrieve my script so that I could study lines this weekend, and the director asked me if I could go over to the place where they store the costumes so that I could try some on. We pulled a few; some vintage 1950's dresses, some reconstructions, and some that were truly gorgeous. Well, I found a few that would work, with a little altering here and there (Seriously - did women in the 1950's have no breasts?), but there was one that was really beautiful. A great color (deep turquoise and green), a great cut, perfect for the character, for the era, everything. I saved it to try on 'til last.
I got it over my head just fine, and even over my hips, but then it was as if something snapped horribly into place. The arms of this dress turned into a torture device. I could not get it the rest of the way on, and I could not get it off. I spent about 45 minutes with a seam ripper being held at odd angles, indeed... trying not to destroy this charming vintage costume which is probably worth quite a bit. I swore. I prayed. I cried. I bargained with God and the dress. I considered setting the dress on fire. I considered setting myself on fire.
Finally, with MUCH trepidation, I called my husband. After he finished LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY, I explained my dilemma, and currently am sitting in this 1950's silk version of the rack waiting for him to come and rescue me from its evil clutches.
I have spent the last HOUR AND A HALF trapped. Because I've gained a little too much weight in the last six months for vintage couture to really go over my apparently ham sized arms, damn it.
When I get out of this thing, I'm GOING TO MAKE IT WORK. Adding fabric, easing seam allowances - whatever. I'm reworking this bad boy and if it KILLS me, I'm going to wear this freaking thing in the show. I didn't cut it off of me because the costumer in me wouldn't allow it, but I refuse to be defeated by a dress.
Even if I have. A little bit.
Hurry up, Nolan. It hurts.