I had long thought that the plight of the fitting room was limited to the process of declaring garments.
You know, your "first round" selections of the trove paralyzing the crook of your arm. Some allow 5, others 7. The side-effects of parting with the balance, even in the knowledge that you'll be rotating for them shortly, are enough to make you break a sweat or throw a tantrum depending on who you are.
But I digress. . .turns out there's a hazard that trumps garment declaration.
I wear a thong and I had six garments.
I declared, I broke a sweat, I took my number, I hung it, I pulled the curtain, I disrobed, someone asked if I needed anything, I answered, I heard someone being directed to ROOM six, I felt a draft
There is really only one thing worse than having a curtain pulled on your bare butt and that is having a curtain pulled on your bare butt in front of purse-sitting boyfriends and husbands all perched on a cluster of ottomans.
Woe to the curtained fitting room and to the fellow shopper who mistakingly pulls your curtain, apologizes profusely, and then lingers.