Tuesday, January 24, 2012

The Obsessive Compulsive Zipper-picker-upper.

This morning, when I was looking through my dresser for pants to wear, I ran into an old denim friend buried in the back of one of my drawers. I wondered if anything was wrong with them. No holes. No crazy stains. A royal blue. So I tried them on and did a private fashion show down the runway in my apartment. They looked good. They fit well. They were just a little long. But they worked with my big black boots. So after I gobbled down a bowl of Honey nut Cheerios and inhaled two espressos, my jeans and I headed out for the day.

It was a beautiful day. Until twenty minutes later—when I looked down—and I realized why those jeans were in the back of my drawer—the zipper. The broken wouldn't-stay-up-no-matter-what zipper. My forever fallen fly. The mischievous piece of metal that caused me embarrassment, made me self conscious, and made me unproductive at work because I spent more time staring at it than my computer. But since the pants fit well, I never thew them out. I just tried to fix the problem. For example, I tried attaching the top of the zipper to the pants with a safety pin. And it worked. For a while. Just when I’d feel comfortable and confident that my boxer briefs wouldn't be on display for New York City, I'd feel a sharp sting in my stomach, like an ant stabbed me with a thumbtack. Ouch! The safety pin would pop open and poke me—so much for safety pins being safe.

Well, this morning when I realized I was wearing the denim that contained the demon zipper, I thought of going back home to change immediately. But I told myself, they'd be fine. And I'd be fine. As long as I checked down below from time to time. Well, I spent most of my day looking down, and when I looked down, most of the time it was down, so I had to pull it back up, and the cycle continued. I had become so aware, and so obsessed with my zipper situation, that I was obsessively checking it every 5 minutes. Every time I got up in a cafe. Every time I thought somebody was staring at me. My head bobbed up and down all the way down Broadway. I don’t know what was worse, an attractive woman staring at my zipper down, or getting caught struggling to lift it up with two hands?

When I got home, I thought about throwing the pants out, not even sending them to the salvation army. I didn't want to curse anybody. But then I thought, it wasn’t the pants fault. So I decided to just bury them in the back of the drawer, behind the old socks and underwear. Who knows, one day I might need a cool pair of pants to wear?

1 comment:

  1. Thanks for THAT visual. LOL.

    Of course, I checked my zipper as soon as I finished reading. : D