It came over me one morning. I dressed, and undressed, and redressed several times. Shirts and pants I had worn many times suddenly made me feel claustrophobic. The colors were good, the styles attractive. This wasn’t a “what do I want to wear?” indecisive moment. No, it was as if every shirt and pair of pants I tried, I felt like my skin couldn’t breathe—that I couldn’t breathe (and not because I had strawberry shortcake with morning coffee). I pulled at the necklines, the thighs, the abdomen. I fidgeted. I could feel confused grumpiness setting in.