stuck in the past, along with the dress that got me there

[editor's note: The following is a mix of truth and fictional writing, both of which result from my immense, anxiousness-causing boredom. You pick which is which.]

It all started with that picture.
I look good in that picture. Correction: We look good in that picture. Correction: We looked good in that picture. Yes, that's it. That was all a long time ago. Years ago. Schools ago. Pounds ago. I wonder if I'd still fit into that dress. I think it's upstairs, in the back of the closet somewhere.
I was right.
And now, 20 minutes later, with glitter decorating the floor and speckling my skin, deodarant stains along the slim black material, and my naked body motionless in the middle of the room, I stand defeated. There had been no one there to pull the dress down over my body, no one there to pull it back over my head. There had been no one there. There was only me, squirming and wriggling, pulling and squeezing, panting and bending. There had been only me. Only me doing it all again, this time in reverse, with just as much difficulty as the first round.
So perhaps things are different now. Perhaps I can't fit into that dress properly anymore. Perhaps we aren't what we used to be. Perhaps we never were. I don't know why I still care. Being stuck in the past is far more dangerous than being stuck in a dress.