(Excerpt from one of my humor short story's)
I hate zippers...and they hate me back. Even the name zipper is loathsome to my ears. I see them as instruments of cruelty...all kinds of cruelty, especially emotional and physical. They don't discriminate. This I know.
Elias Howe, the inventor of the sewing machine, (he should have stopped there) I discovered was the perpetrator of this vile invention back in 1851. He called them "clothing closures." Clearly, good Elias didn't have a penchant for snappy names. Ah, the snap...now that's a clothing closure worthy of respect and serious consideration. Snaps are passive and cooperative, just like a good husband ought to be. But that's a discourse to be savored for another time. For now, let it be known that I want zip to do with zippers. Nada. And this declaration is founded on the best solid proof there is...my personal experience with the hateful things.
When I dress mornings, it’s not unrealistic to expect my clothing to hang with me through the day. Pulling, tugging and cussing the multitude of inferior zippers living in my closet should not greet me each morn. It’s difficult enough to coordinate and style an outfit for work, without having to access my zipper’s mood, too.
The wretched things live to pinch protruding tummies and exfoliate skin on their journey up and down. There should be warning labels sewn into every garment that has the misfortune to be held hostage by a zipper. And their ratchety voice…well, it’s beyond annoying. After the daily tug of war is hard won, and they’re locked, they lure me into believing they’ll behave. Zippers lie.
They are wily and wait for an opportune moment to release, like when I’ve sashayed up to our company’s coffee machine surrounded by co-workers. Me and my new zebra panties said good morning to everyone just last week. Ah but the ultimate weapon zippers employ… is to stick.
Last installment...enjoy a closing laugh at my expense..
A while back, I chose a new stylish jade jumpsuit to wear at a conference where I had a small participating role. The prior week a too helpful sales lady insisted this outfit suited me and I absolutely must make it mine. Noting the zipper running a mile down the front did give me pause, but the vibrant color trumped my worry. I bought the jumpsuit.
Conference day found me sneaking off to the ladies’ lounge to freshen up minutes before my participation was needed. Disaster tapped me...again. As I endeavored to zip, the detestable contraption jammed at my waistline. I employed my most impressive profane words to no avail. Desperate, I tried coaxing, pleading, but that only empowered the wicked thing’s teeth to bite down harder.
Thankfully, the lounge's vending machine held the makings to rescue me...sort of. Three dollars produced a handful of safety pins that soon traveled my jumpsuit's front and resembled a train track's cross ties. Reluctantly, I chugged out to the waiting audience, bedazzled in shiny, silver pinning's guaranteed to trigger migraines and no shortage of audience chatter. Once more, a zealous zipper had bested me.
Yes, zippers have visited disgrace on me countless times in fitting rooms and in public places. Don't you all think it's time we women unite, rally round the snaps and buttons? Give them their due. Write your favorite designers. Tell them we ain’t getting zippered anymore.