Every time. Every single time.

So I walked into an outlet which promised 'Fabulous Traditional Wear at Unbelievable Rates!' in a shopping mall and gazed at the rows and rows of shimmering jackets, sequinned kurtis, glittering chudidars and glamorous saris on display. I had a wedding to attend in a few weeks, and all I possessed of suitable 'wedding wear' was an extremely old salwar which when I put on (oh yes, I tried it on!), tore all the way down the middle. I guess that's when I realized it was time to restock the wardrobe with a bit of classic Indian.

Always the most reluctant shopper, I walked in apprehensively and steeled myself for the 'Trauma of the Trial Room'. My mom had immediately made a beeline for the displays marked to be 'On Sale' and was already carefully scrutinizing some kind of flimsy silky material.

My eyes scanned the room till they found (aha!) the 'Free Size' area. It was in bold and gleaming atop a display of beautiful clothes, and I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this wouldn't be such a waste of time after all. I had just reached out to pick out a kurti when an over-enthusiastic assistant wearing a maniacal smile came bounding over. She was short and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and a card which read 'Hello, I am Shanti! How may I help you?' was pinned on top of her regulation pink and white shirt. I ignored her in the hope that she would go away, but she looked up at my 5-foot-10 frame and immediately began to pick out different styles from the rack, and promising with utmost sincerity, that All of these were my size, and All of them would Easily fit me. She offered another confidently professional smile and held the clothes out to me. Hesitantly , I picked out an indigo-blue and a pale green and strode to the trial room.

I cheat when I try out. I don't bother to undress fully. If they fit me over my clothes, they will fit me. But one look at the slinky things I'd carried and I realized they would tear at the slightest stress. So...

The first one fit...my arms. Just above my chest, it got stuck. I struggled wildly and was about to utter cries of help when the wretched thing came out. Still recovering my breath, I threw on the second with a vengeance. That one fit, oh yes it did, but I realized if I wore it for two more minutes I would die of suffocation, the first person ever, to die of a too-tight dress. The material stretched over my chest, already a little too flat for an 18-year-old, and made my breasts look non-existent.

I pulled it off with a spirit of one fighting a thrashing python. I looked at the disheveled reflection in the mirror and had a sudden urge to laugh.

Smoothing my hair and clutching the clothes that had tried to kill me I pushed the heavy brocade curtains back, only to find the assistant waiting on tenterhooks.

'Which one fit?' she asked eagerly.

'This one,' I said, pointing at the black turtleneck that I was wearing.