I tried on a shirt. Now I can't get it off.

It was my first time outside the house without baby Taylor.
“Go out and treat yourself to something nice,†Dan had told me. “I got her.â€
When I ran into Kohl's, I nearly cried. Shirts. Jeans. People! There was a life outside Baby.
After some rummaging, I found a really cute shirt on a clearance rack. It was a sort of a blush pink/rose gold color tee, with ruching up the sides. I checked the size: Large. I was about to put it back when I remembered that, since pregnancy and giving birth, I was a large.
I grabbed it and made my way to the dressing room.
I pulled my own top off. A weird cluster of stretch marks hung above my belly button. My stomach stuck out a bit over my jeans.
Pregnancy had definitely changed my body for the worse.
I sighed and tugged the shirt off the hanger. Then I pulled it over myself. The cloth felt strangely smooth against my skin. A weird mix between spandex leggings and that weird pleather stuff.
The fit was snug. I had trouble getting my arms through, and had to yank it hard over my midsection for it to fit. Am I an extra-large now? I thought, with a pang of sadness. Or maybe this is a Junior's top…
I finally glanced in the mirror.
I looked like a sausage.
The top was super tight. My pale stomach jutted out from the bottom, like some sort of upside-down muffin top. My arms felt like they were in tourniquets.
“So much for that,†I muttered to myself. I reached around and tugged it off.
It didn't come off.
I tugged hard.
“Ow!â€
Sharp pain shot across my back. It was a tingling, prickly pain -- like ripping off a band-aid. Or getting waxed.
I tugged again.
Pain flew over my body. Worse this time. I immediately crumpled against the wall of the dressing room. I felt hot. Weak.
I looked in the mirror.
And froze.
The edges of the shirt -- the bottom hem, the edges of the sleeves -- were gone. As if the shirt, somehow, had melted right into my skin. My reflection, blurred by my tears of pain, looked naked.
Except for the fact that my stomach and arms bulged out strangely where the hem should have been.
“Help!†I screamed. I banged on the walls of the dressing room. I fumbled with the latch on the door, threw it open. “Help! Get it off! I can't… I can't get it off…â€
I was out of breath.
The shirt was squeezing my chest too hard. I couldn't take in air. I couldn't breathe.
The dressing rooms shimmered before me. Patches of black swam in my vision. I screamed out the last bit of air in my lungs, making a muffled squeaking sound.
“Hey! Hey!â€
Arms grabbed me from behind.
Then, suddenly, the shirt peeled off of me. I sucked in a breathe of air and began to cough.
“Are you okay?â€
I looked up.
A woman stood over me. Middle-aged, maybe older. In one hand she held the crumpled, leathery, pink fabric. The other rested on my shoulder.
“I -- I couldn't get it off,†I sputtered. Sobs shook my body. “I was stuck to me. Stuck to my skin. I -- I --â€
“It's okay. You're okay,†she said in a soft tone. She knelt next to me, dropping the shirt on the ground.
With a shaking hand, I reached out and touched it.
It felt like ordinary cloth.


Source.