In a rare twist of fate, I actually got to meet my wife for lunch today. I work in downtown Tampa, and she works on the other side of the county usually, but today she was in town. I won’t rehash the way that wives look at everything through a lens that determines lunch-with-spouse feasibility. Wait, I think I just did rehash that. Oh well.
So, I got the notice from Waze that my wife was about to arrive, and I left my desk. I stepped into the restroom to do some business…
…and the zipper on my pants grenaded itself. Failed, right then and there. If you don’t know that sickening feeling of a zipper peeling apart, you haven’t really lived. It’s like the feeling when you step on the brakes on ice, and feel the car start to slide…a slave to momentum and Newtonian physics. Like the feeling right after tripping but just before smacking your face on the sidewalk. And there I was.
So I tugged my shirt down to cover as much of the belt-line jet-scoop as I could, and hustled out to my wife, in our van, at the curb. It didn’t take long to describe what happened…I just had to point.
“So you need to get new pants?”
“Well, I was thinking of it. Could I get through the day just by doing this?” And I pulled my shirt down.
“Would you?” I asked.
“No. Then again, I crapped myself and cleaned myself up and finished the day.” My wife is a total trophy wife, by the way.
So, today found us trooping into the Wal-Mart on Dale Mabry, heading straight back to men’s wear — as straight as possible given all of the clueless, sightless ninnies with carts in the way — where I grabbed a pair of adjustable-waist George khakis, and we headed to the check-out. I’m lucky in that as long as the size numbers on the pants are right, they’ll fit. Now that I look on their website, I see that I could’ve found some pants for half the price, but I grabbed the first pants in my size I could find, so $19.99 later and I found myself in the grungy men’s room of a Wal-Mart with no pants on. Not quite like the recurring nightmare.
After that, things were anti-climactic. We ate Tijuana Flats. We found that my broken pants, which in truth I did get from a thrift shop, are from LL Bean, and we can send them back for a free replacement. My trophy wife made it to her doctor’s appointment on time despite my wardrobe malfunction.
In all, no harm done.