The Zipper Won't Zip

Two weeks ago, I forgot to put on underpants before going to class. I woke up late and had a nasty cold. Putting on boxers must not have been a priority. I didn't become aware of this detail until the TA workshop ended. That's when I had to go the men's room. I stepped up to the urinal, unhooked the red bungee cord I had been using as a belt, and unzipped. No boxers. Just me. It was pretty shocking.

Then I had to go teach. I became super aware of the fact that I wasn't wearing underpants when I felt the dry scratch of denim on my junk. It caused me to walk funny, twisting my hips in an attempt to shift it into a less uncomfortable position. To cup myself and adjust would have been inappropriate. I had to fight through it, and I wondered if my students could tell. Did they know I was going commando? Did they know I knew I wasn't wearing boxers? Did they think I was walking funny from the computer to the white board? I began staring down any student that was looking at me. They were all looking at me.

We were doing the Great Candy Debate, and I was writing on the white board each table's argument for why Snickers was better than Skittles, why Kit-Kat was better than Skittles, why M&M's were better than Skittles; and I couldn't help but wonder if it was shit-on-Skittles day. I asked the class this—is it shit on Skittles day?—and they laughed. It felt like they were laughing at the fact that I had forgotten my boxers, though. I wanted to explain myself, to tell them the reason I might have seemed off that day was because I wasn’t wearing chonies. But I couldn’t tell if I was acting any differently. It may have all been in my head. Plus, I didn’t want them to start seeing if they could see—you know what I mean? Class ended early.

The walk back to my car was a cold one. It wasn’t drizzling as much as it was misting. I couldn’t feel the rain hitting my face; it just appeared, like my skin was crying. And it made my face colder. I continued to walk goofy. The kind of walk that says, “I’m just picking out a wedgie; and look—no hands!” I kept my head down and avoided eye contact with everyone I passed.

Have you ever felt the need or desire to explain yourself to complete strangers? It happens to me every fucking day. This impulse to stop someone and tell them why I’ve made the choices I have, or the fact that I had little to no control over what they witnessed me doing.

Last Tuesday night, I walked to the Post Office to mail a bill. The temperature was between 40 and 50 degrees, and I was riding one of the waves my cold had been sending me on. The zipper to my wool coat had recently stopped doing its job; it zipped, but the teeth wouldn’t stay together. I dressed in layers underneath: two tee shirts and a sweater. I also wore a ball cap and decided to wrap a scarf around my neck, even though it wasn’t really cold enough for one. On the walk over, I held the jacket closed by bringing my pocketed fists together. A guy walked past me in the opposite direction. I looked up to see him glance at me and chuckle. I figured he was laughing because I wore a hat and scarf, but wasn’t zipped up. I wanted to turn around and say, “Zipper’s broken.” But I just lowered my head and kept walking.

Maybe he wasn’t laughing at me. Maybe he was your standard Mankato goofy bastard. But for some reason, I didn’t want him (or anyone passing by) to think I was unaware of the zipper on my coat, or that I’m not responsible. Nor do I want people thinking I’m some douche-bag that wears a scarf when the weather doesn’t call for it. I shouldn’t care what other people think, I know. But when it comes to questioning my responsibility or douchebaggery, I can’t help but be concerned.

I continued walking down Second toward the Post Office. Some of the street lamps buzzed and flickered. The wind picked up. I pulled both sides of my jacket together and put my head down. The bill of my cap covered my eyes. I didn’t see the bare branch, hanging from one of those small trees that line the sidewalk. I felt my head snap back. My whole body followed. I got clotheslined and turned around, but I remained on my feet. When I looked up, a truck with tinted windows was driving south right past me. I know the driver saw what happened, probably got a good laugh out of it, too. The truck stopped at a red on Cherry, and I wanted nothing more than to run up to the driver and tell him/her that I was okay. What s/he had just seen was a simple accident, due to me not being aware of my surroundings. I took two steps toward Cherry, and the light turned green. The truck drove away.