You dash into the sporting goods store across from the park, and stand panting in your cargo shorts and t-shirt next to a camping display.
"Milo!" shouts the store manager standing in front of you looking at you oddly, "This mannequin doesn't belong here. We don't even sell those shorts any more, they're from last year's inventory. Probably from last year's display, I don't recall seeing this mannequin on the floor recently. Get it cleaned up, and use it in the front window. It looks more realistic than the one we've got in the display currently."
Mannequin? He thinks you're a mannequin. Strangely you find that you can neither move, nor speak.
Milo's a short blond teenager who's barely 18, "I don't know how this mannequin got here, Mr. Manger, but I'll take care of it right away."
The shop attendant grabs you between the legs and tips you effortlessly on your side grabbing your torso with the other hand. Either he's really strong, or you're a lot lighter than you used to be. He carries you to the swinging doors at the back of the store. He carries you passed the shelves of stock to an elevator to the basement. He carries you passed more boxes and into a room filled with mannequins and mannequin parts. It's a workshop with a bench, and a canvas covered corner with a platform where mannequins are repainted. He begins stripping you. He tosses your clothes into a bin.
He pauses as he looks at your underwear, "Underwear? Who puts underwear on a mannequin?" He shakes his head, and reaches to pull them off.