It all started in Baltimore when a friend, who always wears the perfect jeans, finally spilled that she buys them from Loehmann's. My friend has one of those figures most aptly described as "willowy." In light of what is to come, I should reveal that I am most aptly described as "optimistic."

Usually I wear about a size 6 or 8, but as I entered Loehmann's, I knew I was in new territory, the land of designer jeans, which, as far as I can tell, are built to fit the body of a 13-year-old boy. So I aimed high, choosing only size 10s and 12s (and hoping they might even be a shade too big).

When I entered the dressing room, the line for the few cherished private rooms was enormous, but no mind. I find that in my third decade, I've become more accepting of my curvy thighs, so the prospect of disrobing in front of strangers didn't seem so bad. (Actually, that's a complete lie, but I was too impatient to wait in line and when I sized up the other shoppers, I felt fairly comfortable with the competition.)

In the least populated corner, I sorted through my pile of denim and managed to squeeze the first pair over my behind, but there was no way they'd button. Loehmann's: 1. Self-esteem: 0. Undaunted, I reached for a second pair and, after a moment's hesitation (in which I could have, should have, turned back), I started pulling them on. I got them up as high as my knees.

Feeling self-righteous against the curve-hating fashion world, I tried to whip off the offensively petite denim but, like a nightmare pair of cowboy boots, they Would. Not. Budge. My heart started pounding, my face began to burn and my mouth went dry as reality set in. I am stuck in a pair of designer jeans in the group dressing room at Loehmann's.

I managed to waddle to the nearest bench and gave them a good yank as several women did a poor job of pretending not to stare. Finally, I was able to push the jeans off my calves and set a land speed record putting on my own clothes and fleeing the store.

They say those who forget history are doomed to repeat it and, so, I did. This time it was at the infamous annual Barneys warehouse sale in New York City . After my friend and I checked her baby stroller we dove in, alternating carrying her infant daughter on our hips. When we each had a large stash of finds, we inquired about the dressing rooms.

"Back there," said an emaciated, sullen employee, vaguely gesturing to a dubious corner where we discovered the "dressing room" was actually a small patch of concrete where both women and men were busy staking out a square foot of space and stripping down. There was no way I was going to be outdone by a bunch of urban fashionistas so, with a little prayer that all the men in the vicinity were gay, off came my clothes-and a piece of my dignity.

I spent the next 20 minutes wriggling, writhing and shimmying in and out of a variety of outfits. When I finally finished, I turned around in my undies to locate my own clothing and nearly knocked over a 40-something gentleman holding an armload of clothes for his wife. How long he had been standing there, I could only guess.

Fast-forward to fall and the Lilly Pulitzer blowout sale in King of Prussia , Pennsylvania . I was with the same friend and the same baby who had survived Barneys with me (that child will need years of retail therapy) and, using her stroller as both a battering ram and a shopping cart, we amassed a huge haul for the dressing room. What we found behind that curtain can only be described as upper-middle-class women gone wild.

There was a pretty girl-next-door type rummaging through a heap of discarded clothing as an argument broke out involving a panty-clad soccer mom who maintained that she'd found the fluorescent-pink wrap skirt with the ribbon trim first. Then I spotted two women sizing up another woman's cache like hyenas examining fresh carrion. When the woman stepped in front of a mirror, one of the hyenas, whom I shall call "Muffy," split from the pair and walked up to her. "Do you like this skirt?" the shopper asked, unwittingly. "It's just darling," Muffy replied casually, "but it's a tad snug, don't you think?"

The woman, who I thought looked perfectly fine in the skirt, agreed and tossed it onto a nearby pile of rejects. Muffy's friend quickly swept into action, whipping the skirt off the pile before even the girl-next-door had spotted it. Then the two hyenas retreated to another corner of the dressing room to examine their kill.

Amidst this scene of hair pulling, passive- aggressive commentary and flagrant nudity, I realized I'd found a group dressing room where not only was I comfortable, I was also having fun. Finally I felt good enough to come out of my cramped corner and drop my pants with confidence. After all, everyone was so consumed with laying their hands on the perfect sweater set, they couldn't care less how much I had to suck in my tummy to get into that pair of blue corduroy pants embroidered with pink whales.