Although we've matured into sweet, caring, and compassionate adults, my brother and I were sometimes, I must confess, mean little children -- although he was the older child who probably should have known better, while I was the innocent and adoring younger sister who wanted to imitate and impress him. But, anyway, I particularly remember our torturing Aunt Ceil, who wore a hearing aid, by pretending to yell loudly into her face when we were, actually, silently mouthing words.
Well, there is such a thing as Karma, you know.
I know, because I was Karma-lized, not for the first or last time, about six years ago. Convinced that I was losing my hearing, I scheduled an appointment with the audiologist. He put me through the entire audio-file, checking to see if my ears were waxing prolific, ascertaining my ability to raise a hand upon hearing beeps or peeps, and testing whether or not I could distinguish and repeat whispered words.
When informed that I had passed every examination, I expressed incredulity. "There's definitely something wrong with my hearing," I insisted.
"Why do you say that?" asked the doctor.
"I can't hear my son when he speaks," I said.
"How old is your son?"
"Fifteen."
"You can't hear him," explained the wise doctor, "because he doesn't want you to hear him."
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Heat Wave (Richmond, VA)
My favorite seasons are Spring and Fall, those in-between times when days are cool and comfortable and nights, cooler and comfortabler still. I crave the crescendo of colorful flowers and turning leaves, bask in the breezes, revel in the roaring rainfalls.
Winters bring snow, beautiful as it cascades down and blankets the barren landscape. Beautiful for the first 20 minutes -- before it sullies to an incredibly unattractive shade of gray-brown-black, the result of foot and vehicular traffic, of chimney emanations and churned-up soil and clay. Beautiful before it causes us to have to excavate our cars from the snowbanks that bury them and to dig them out yet again, each time the snowplow passes. Then the snow turns to ice, and the real lack of fun begins. Walking turns treacherous. In their inexplicable quest to deplete grocery shelves of milk and eggs, lunatic drivers careen into median strips and other vehicles. Here in Richmond, when snow is in the air or even predicted on the airwaves, we shutter schools, businesses, and life for a full week. Due to the phenomenon of global or national or regional or local warming, we are back to what passes for normal within a few days or 30 minutes. Except for the grim, sooty snow mountains, which stick around for months or centuries, like icebergs towering over nearly every parking lot. (Suggestion: They could be converted into monuments to Confederate heroes!!!)
On the positive side, one CAN seek refuge from the winter cold. Most buildings are sufficiently heated, sometimes (as in my workplace) approximating sauna temperatures. Wearing layers of clothing is advisable. I always have my heavy faux-fur coat, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, a tee, stockings, knee-high socks, boots, and "inside" shoes either on or nearby. Sometimes, as in my home (which Husband insists on maintaining at what he considers a healthful temperature -- which translates to normal people as Arctic, unbearable, and more frigid than it is outside), I pull on long underwear (in addition to my normally short underwear), furry slippers, and wool sweaters so ample that I could secrete the donor sheep in there with me. I burrow under all the blankets, quilts, and random overcoats that I can get my mittens on.
A southern summer is not quite so easy to escape. You can divest yourself of most of your clothing, to the tsk-tsking or ogling of innocent and experienced bystanders, but your skin still sticks with you. The air oozes, thicker than my winter woollies. The very act of breathing makes me work up a sweat. Emerging from my morning shower un-freshed, I dry off merely to wet on. Clothes cling. Rashes arise. The only part of me that delights is my hair; it springs forth, a profusion of frizzy, wiry, cork-screwy curls that make my head appear an over-sized Brillo pad, too big for my body to support, too unwieldy to scour sticky pots in the average-sized kitchen sink.
Air conditioned environs offer some respite and, often, a path to pneumonia. Again, you need a suitcase full of clothing, from bikini to snowsuit, as you never know how hot or cold you'll be, inside or out. I am not a fan of air conditioning, which reminds me that Legionnaire's disease might be just a breath away. Neither do I enjoy being in rooms where fans merely serve to ripple the near-liquid streams of sluggish air.
This is what I am facing today, as the temperature soars to near 100 degrees F, the humidity to 190%, and the combination boils down to a sort of crock pot for stewing any known life form in its own juices.
Needless to write, I am clamoring for Spring or Autumn -- the rains that actually cool us off, the temperate temperatures that enable us to go about our daily business and pleasure without having to pry ourselves off sticky seats, causing us to sacrifice a tender layer of skin and leaving us even more hot and bothered.
Winters bring snow, beautiful as it cascades down and blankets the barren landscape. Beautiful for the first 20 minutes -- before it sullies to an incredibly unattractive shade of gray-brown-black, the result of foot and vehicular traffic, of chimney emanations and churned-up soil and clay. Beautiful before it causes us to have to excavate our cars from the snowbanks that bury them and to dig them out yet again, each time the snowplow passes. Then the snow turns to ice, and the real lack of fun begins. Walking turns treacherous. In their inexplicable quest to deplete grocery shelves of milk and eggs, lunatic drivers careen into median strips and other vehicles. Here in Richmond, when snow is in the air or even predicted on the airwaves, we shutter schools, businesses, and life for a full week. Due to the phenomenon of global or national or regional or local warming, we are back to what passes for normal within a few days or 30 minutes. Except for the grim, sooty snow mountains, which stick around for months or centuries, like icebergs towering over nearly every parking lot. (Suggestion: They could be converted into monuments to Confederate heroes!!!)
On the positive side, one CAN seek refuge from the winter cold. Most buildings are sufficiently heated, sometimes (as in my workplace) approximating sauna temperatures. Wearing layers of clothing is advisable. I always have my heavy faux-fur coat, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, a tee, stockings, knee-high socks, boots, and "inside" shoes either on or nearby. Sometimes, as in my home (which Husband insists on maintaining at what he considers a healthful temperature -- which translates to normal people as Arctic, unbearable, and more frigid than it is outside), I pull on long underwear (in addition to my normally short underwear), furry slippers, and wool sweaters so ample that I could secrete the donor sheep in there with me. I burrow under all the blankets, quilts, and random overcoats that I can get my mittens on.
A southern summer is not quite so easy to escape. You can divest yourself of most of your clothing, to the tsk-tsking or ogling of innocent and experienced bystanders, but your skin still sticks with you. The air oozes, thicker than my winter woollies. The very act of breathing makes me work up a sweat. Emerging from my morning shower un-freshed, I dry off merely to wet on. Clothes cling. Rashes arise. The only part of me that delights is my hair; it springs forth, a profusion of frizzy, wiry, cork-screwy curls that make my head appear an over-sized Brillo pad, too big for my body to support, too unwieldy to scour sticky pots in the average-sized kitchen sink.
Air conditioned environs offer some respite and, often, a path to pneumonia. Again, you need a suitcase full of clothing, from bikini to snowsuit, as you never know how hot or cold you'll be, inside or out. I am not a fan of air conditioning, which reminds me that Legionnaire's disease might be just a breath away. Neither do I enjoy being in rooms where fans merely serve to ripple the near-liquid streams of sluggish air.
This is what I am facing today, as the temperature soars to near 100 degrees F, the humidity to 190%, and the combination boils down to a sort of crock pot for stewing any known life form in its own juices.
Needless to write, I am clamoring for Spring or Autumn -- the rains that actually cool us off, the temperate temperatures that enable us to go about our daily business and pleasure without having to pry ourselves off sticky seats, causing us to sacrifice a tender layer of skin and leaving us even more hot and bothered.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
The Eyes Have It -- And So Does the Rest of Me (Richmond, VA)
Forget bedroom or Betty Gable eyes. These days I'm sporting not-so-chic Bride of Frankenstein peepers. I'm talking pink eye, that electric-red, radiating-line, scary-to-small-children look.
While the windows to my soul should be shuttered to anyone but the Undead, the rest of me is equally shudder-inducing: Lungs are crackling, cough is hacking, voice is breaking, joints are aching, head is swimming, sight is dimming. I sound as bad as I feel.
Feeling sick is bad enough when the weather is unpleasant, but I hate that I've missed some of the nicest days this week as I lay abed. Had I actually succeeded in dozing off, I might be better by now. But the bloody birds in the trees, the thundering bass blasting from car radios, the sometimes simultaneously screeching ambulance, police, and fire sirens, human and feline voices, and that blasted, rinky-dink tune from the ice cream truck all float up from the street and straight into my congested earways.
Except for some interpreting assignments and visits to the doctor and pharmacy, I've been staying home, a shut in. I know I'm in bad shape when I don't have the desire to dance or zumba and when I am not all that interested in food. So what, exactly, have I been doing when not trying to sleep? I've squinted my way through four or five books, solved umpteen crossword puzzles, Facebooked way too much, practically Carpal-tunneled myself playing Solitaire. Sometimes I'm too tired to get up to get whatever it was I forgot the last time I got up to get it.
If only my Mother were still alive to dose me with chicken soup (a.k.a. Jewish penicillin), to soothe my aching brow, and to worry me well again! Oh, well. One can only dream -- if only one could sleep. However, now that I am fully eye dropped, antibioticized, cough suppressed, doped up with vitamin D, and sated with C, maybe I'll be able to catch some ZZZ's. I'm hoping to get back to the rhythms of life in the blink of a normal eye.
While the windows to my soul should be shuttered to anyone but the Undead, the rest of me is equally shudder-inducing: Lungs are crackling, cough is hacking, voice is breaking, joints are aching, head is swimming, sight is dimming. I sound as bad as I feel.
Feeling sick is bad enough when the weather is unpleasant, but I hate that I've missed some of the nicest days this week as I lay abed. Had I actually succeeded in dozing off, I might be better by now. But the bloody birds in the trees, the thundering bass blasting from car radios, the sometimes simultaneously screeching ambulance, police, and fire sirens, human and feline voices, and that blasted, rinky-dink tune from the ice cream truck all float up from the street and straight into my congested earways.
Except for some interpreting assignments and visits to the doctor and pharmacy, I've been staying home, a shut in. I know I'm in bad shape when I don't have the desire to dance or zumba and when I am not all that interested in food. So what, exactly, have I been doing when not trying to sleep? I've squinted my way through four or five books, solved umpteen crossword puzzles, Facebooked way too much, practically Carpal-tunneled myself playing Solitaire. Sometimes I'm too tired to get up to get whatever it was I forgot the last time I got up to get it.
If only my Mother were still alive to dose me with chicken soup (a.k.a. Jewish penicillin), to soothe my aching brow, and to worry me well again! Oh, well. One can only dream -- if only one could sleep. However, now that I am fully eye dropped, antibioticized, cough suppressed, doped up with vitamin D, and sated with C, maybe I'll be able to catch some ZZZ's. I'm hoping to get back to the rhythms of life in the blink of a normal eye.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Going Back (Richmond, VA)
I was planning to spend a full two months in Mexico this summer, but number one and only son is off to Barcelona for a semester, so I will return early in order to spend time with him before his departure.
Son doesn't know exactly when he will leave, but I've made clear that I have made the semi-ultimate sacrifice for him -- coming back to the humid, miserable, wretched weather typical of a Richmond summer. What we do for love!
If he leaves before he gets sick of me (which really isn't very long), I promise to make his life miserable in five languages.
Son doesn't know exactly when he will leave, but I've made clear that I have made the semi-ultimate sacrifice for him -- coming back to the humid, miserable, wretched weather typical of a Richmond summer. What we do for love!
If he leaves before he gets sick of me (which really isn't very long), I promise to make his life miserable in five languages.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Twenty-nine and Counting (Richmond, VA)
In my night class, I insist that, although the male students might want to report their true ages, we females (instructor included) are all 29 or younger. I must confess that I look pretty damn bad for 29, and each time I mention something like: "I've been teaching since I was about four years old, since I'm only 29 now," my class explodes with laughter -- despite my threats to fail them all when they do so.
The day before my most recent 29th birthday, I was attending a meeting with three colleagues, one of whom wished me a happy 49th. Another woman said, "I didn't know you were 49! I thought you were younger."
"I'm 39," I told her, after giving her a big hug. "I just look old for my age."
Some friends offered to "have my birthday," and I was eager to comply. "You can have it," I told them. "I certainly don't need another one! In fact, you can have all of them."
Of course, the alternative to having birthdays is not all that appealing, especially as I feel just about as good, as fit, and even more confident than I did when I was 29 for the first time.
The day before my most recent 29th birthday, I was attending a meeting with three colleagues, one of whom wished me a happy 49th. Another woman said, "I didn't know you were 49! I thought you were younger."
"I'm 39," I told her, after giving her a big hug. "I just look old for my age."
Some friends offered to "have my birthday," and I was eager to comply. "You can have it," I told them. "I certainly don't need another one! In fact, you can have all of them."
Of course, the alternative to having birthdays is not all that appealing, especially as I feel just about as good, as fit, and even more confident than I did when I was 29 for the first time.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Too Many Choices, Too Little Time (Richmond, VA)
I have often thought it would be fun to learn kickboxing. Okay, so that won't come as news to those of you I bullied and/or beat up when we were kids, but most of you still believe that I am rather meek and mild. And the truth is that I am not interested in kicking or boxing anybody but rather in the movements, themselves, and the toning that would naturally ensue from working my butt off, both literally and figure-atively. I was, therefore, highly tempted to buy the recent Groupon deal offering me three group kickboxing lessons, a helmet, and a session of personal coaching.
But, at around the same time -- and there's only a 24-hour window in which to grab a Groupon -- I received an e-mail informing me of the myriad opportunities available to take belly dance lessons. In my zumba class, belly-dancing moves are among my favorites. I took a few lessons in Mexico last summer and was reminded of how much I love the music, the rhythms, the undulating movements. I had studied the art when I was a twenty-something residing in Manhattan, and had really enjoyed it. Or rather, I'd enjoyed it until I was asked to coordinate sounding those little finger cymbals (zims? zits?)with moving the rest of my body -- and couldn't. But here I am with all the necessary belly-dancing equipment: hips, belly, a jangly hip scarf, and, somewhere around here, some now-rusty little cymbals. Plus, conquering those body isolations will make my salsa saucier.
But I just enrolled in salsa classes. I took one two weeks ago, had to skip last week, and am finding lots of scheduling challenges and conflicts. I purchased a 10-class card, which I must use before June. So, I think I need to focus on refining my salsa.
However, I also want to better my bachata, the Dominican dance that I get to do from time to time at salsa events. I took an hour-long workshop last year, but I don't remember anything -- except that I'd be too embarrassed to replicate the moves that were taught: way too provocative. But I'm sure that there are others that I could add to my repertoire without taking away anything from my reputation or what's left thereof.
And I would really like to take a course in Bollywood-style dance. The music is fun, the movements energetic, with lots of belly-dancing undulations. You don't need a partner, either. Thank goodness, no classes are offered around here. One less choice....
But, at around the same time -- and there's only a 24-hour window in which to grab a Groupon -- I received an e-mail informing me of the myriad opportunities available to take belly dance lessons. In my zumba class, belly-dancing moves are among my favorites. I took a few lessons in Mexico last summer and was reminded of how much I love the music, the rhythms, the undulating movements. I had studied the art when I was a twenty-something residing in Manhattan, and had really enjoyed it. Or rather, I'd enjoyed it until I was asked to coordinate sounding those little finger cymbals (zims? zits?)with moving the rest of my body -- and couldn't. But here I am with all the necessary belly-dancing equipment: hips, belly, a jangly hip scarf, and, somewhere around here, some now-rusty little cymbals. Plus, conquering those body isolations will make my salsa saucier.
But I just enrolled in salsa classes. I took one two weeks ago, had to skip last week, and am finding lots of scheduling challenges and conflicts. I purchased a 10-class card, which I must use before June. So, I think I need to focus on refining my salsa.
However, I also want to better my bachata, the Dominican dance that I get to do from time to time at salsa events. I took an hour-long workshop last year, but I don't remember anything -- except that I'd be too embarrassed to replicate the moves that were taught: way too provocative. But I'm sure that there are others that I could add to my repertoire without taking away anything from my reputation or what's left thereof.
And I would really like to take a course in Bollywood-style dance. The music is fun, the movements energetic, with lots of belly-dancing undulations. You don't need a partner, either. Thank goodness, no classes are offered around here. One less choice....
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Over Exposed (Richmond, VA)
Thursday promised to be a long and crazy day, full of challenges. A schedule that hinged on all going smoothly, no traffic snarls, no snow storms, no shmooze time factored in. Everything depended on my ability to launch myself from one activity to the next without a hitch. Should I tarry or lag, the delicate balance I'd engineered would be destroyed, as quickly, as easily, as unstoppably as the fall of a house of cards, a row of dominoes.
The alarm sounds at 5:45 a.m., allowing me plenty of time for a warm shower, an unhurried breakfast, and an unharried drive to the high school where I am to co-host a 7:30 workshop for parents. I drag myself out of bed at 6:45, allowing me barely enough time to wash what I need to, grab a cheese stick, and burn my tongue on a couple of gulps of coffee.
Luckily, I had prepared my clothing the night before: a little black dress, short sleeved, light and comfortable, with a beautiful silver zipper stretching from neck to hem -- perfect for moving from a day of work to a night of dance. I had splurged on it several months ago because, when I'd tried on, it seemed to have been made expressly with me in mind. It was that oh-so-perfect little, all-season, any-reason black dress.
I slip on the dress, button up a little green and black jacket that adds exactly the professional tone I'm aiming for, grab my little black purse and my big black bag, sail out of the house, jump into the car, race to my destination and arrive at precisely the time I'm expected: 7:15 on the nose. Except that it seems that nobody was expecting me. The school thought the program was starting at 9:00, although they truly seemed to be completely unaware of it, and the only people who showed up were my co-presenters.
As the workshop- that-wasn't is scheduled to last until 9:30, and I leave at 9 on the dot, I have enough time to dash to my nearby office and make phone calls, respond to and send new e-mails, start a translation, design a flyer, and, in short, try to cram seven hours of work into 45 minutes.
I shut down computer, printer, and phone conversation, wrench myself out from behind the desk, and propel myself out the door in more than enough time to drive to the university, park in the lot behind the pharmacy, as instructed, and race walk the seven blocks to the building, climb the two sets of stairs, two stairs at a time, and find the classroom where I am expected. Except that I wasn't expected in the pharmacy lot.
As I'm checking to make sure that I have the right room number, my notes, handouts, and sign-up sheets for the spiel I'll be giving to twenty-something twenty-somethings, a man raps on the driver's side window. He looks like a deflated Santa Claus, with the white beard one expects, but lacking the proper clothing and attitude. He's scowling.
"___________________ gave me permission to park here," I tell him confidently. "Her father owns the lot."
"Well, I'm her brother," he responds. "Who died and made her king?"
He walks away, leaving me to believe that my car won't be towed and that I can rush on.
Apparently, 11 in the morning is the college student's equivalent of my 5:45 a.m. One girl and one boy ask a question or two; the rest of thei4 classmates either sleep or quietly pass away while I'm talking. I would call my presentation a "very modest" success.
The course professor, my co-presenter, and I go out for lunch afterward. Among other points of discussion, they admire my dress. Although the comment "You look like a twist-and-turn Barbie!" might also be interpreted as an insult.
We disband just in time for me to arrive, on time, for my next meeting and presentation. No one falls asleep, mentions dolls, or prevents us from leaving a little bit early.
This unexpected gift -- an extra 15 minutes -- grants me the opportunity to stop en route to the day's final meeting. I need to pick up a birthday present for my "daughter."
I find a parking spot out front (what serendipity!), exit the car, enter the shop, and start combing the clothing racks and shelves for something she might like. I find an attractive handbag that appears to have her name on it, and pick it up. With a few minutes left to kill, I continue combing.
Suddenly, I hear a pop. I'm wearing my long, lush winter coat, so I'm sure that I've somehow popped one of its buttons. My eyes search the floor around me. They stop when they happen to notice that my dress is unzipped from hem to crotch. Luckily, I'm facing a clothes rack, and no one is facing me. I hug my coat closed and run into a try-on room, where I struggle to zip up or, in this case, zip down. Alas, the zipper won't budge an inch or any portion thereof. I button up and down my coat, pay for the purse, and steer towards my dinner meeting.
The first to arrive, I wriggle out of my coat sleeves and cover my lap with the coat bottom. When my female co-meeters sit down, I ask them to remind me that, if for any reason I have to leave the table, I must first put on my coat. Our male colleague joins us, and we're meeting while eating. I remember to don my outerwear before excusing myself to go to the restroom.
Entering, I remove my coat, turn to face the mirror, and catch sight of myself, little green jacket gaping wide open, and my zipper open to the neck.
I double over with laughter. Had I not been in a restroom, I would have fallen to the floor. I struggle to draw the zipper down, but the zipper wins the battle. I am screeching with laughter, unable to leave the little room for 15 minutes, sure that every woman in the restaurant is cursing as she waits in line for the maniac to leave the bathroom. When I finally emerge, shrouded in my winter coat, my colleagues don't seem to realize that the wardrobe malfunction has gone critical. I am having a hard time attempting not to giggle. I take my leave and my purse, and scoot to my vehicle.
Needless to say, I cannot head directly to my dancing venue. I veer off course, stopping by home. My husband opens the door, surprised to see me at 8:00 p.m.
"I'm glad you're home so early," he says, already turning towards the kitchen.
I shed my coat and jacket and follow him. "I had a bit of a mishap, today," I say.
He turns, and his eyes go wide. "Whoa!" he shouts. "You could have been arrested, driving around like that!"
"It's 12 degrees outside; I had my coat on. I'm going upstairs to change."
"Why?" he says.
I change into something safe (translation: without a zipper) and set out for the dance place. As I'm driving, I'm imagining what it would have been like to have had my zipper go offline on the dance floor. YouTube videos? Captions saying: "Don't try this at home!" or "Warning! Not suitable for children under 18...or anyone else!" Would I have had the sense to immediately grab my (poor) dance partner, clasp him to my bosom, and maneuver him -- scurrying crablike but in sync to the salsa rhythms -- to grab my coat, then back to the lady's room? Or would I have just stood there, howling with laughter and embarrassment until someone else had the good sense and uncommon decency to either knock me to the floor or cover me up with whatever random garment he or she could grab?
I'm so glad I didn't have to find out.
A few days later, I go to a tailor's shop and ask if there is any way to repair my all-season, imperfect little black dress. "Zippers are undependable," the guy tells me. So I guess, if I get it fixed, I'll have to wear it only in winter and under wraps. I sure don't want it to be "open" season on me.
The alarm sounds at 5:45 a.m., allowing me plenty of time for a warm shower, an unhurried breakfast, and an unharried drive to the high school where I am to co-host a 7:30 workshop for parents. I drag myself out of bed at 6:45, allowing me barely enough time to wash what I need to, grab a cheese stick, and burn my tongue on a couple of gulps of coffee.
Luckily, I had prepared my clothing the night before: a little black dress, short sleeved, light and comfortable, with a beautiful silver zipper stretching from neck to hem -- perfect for moving from a day of work to a night of dance. I had splurged on it several months ago because, when I'd tried on, it seemed to have been made expressly with me in mind. It was that oh-so-perfect little, all-season, any-reason black dress.
I slip on the dress, button up a little green and black jacket that adds exactly the professional tone I'm aiming for, grab my little black purse and my big black bag, sail out of the house, jump into the car, race to my destination and arrive at precisely the time I'm expected: 7:15 on the nose. Except that it seems that nobody was expecting me. The school thought the program was starting at 9:00, although they truly seemed to be completely unaware of it, and the only people who showed up were my co-presenters.
As the workshop- that-wasn't is scheduled to last until 9:30, and I leave at 9 on the dot, I have enough time to dash to my nearby office and make phone calls, respond to and send new e-mails, start a translation, design a flyer, and, in short, try to cram seven hours of work into 45 minutes.
I shut down computer, printer, and phone conversation, wrench myself out from behind the desk, and propel myself out the door in more than enough time to drive to the university, park in the lot behind the pharmacy, as instructed, and race walk the seven blocks to the building, climb the two sets of stairs, two stairs at a time, and find the classroom where I am expected. Except that I wasn't expected in the pharmacy lot.
As I'm checking to make sure that I have the right room number, my notes, handouts, and sign-up sheets for the spiel I'll be giving to twenty-something twenty-somethings, a man raps on the driver's side window. He looks like a deflated Santa Claus, with the white beard one expects, but lacking the proper clothing and attitude. He's scowling.
"___________________ gave me permission to park here," I tell him confidently. "Her father owns the lot."
"Well, I'm her brother," he responds. "Who died and made her king?"
He walks away, leaving me to believe that my car won't be towed and that I can rush on.
Apparently, 11 in the morning is the college student's equivalent of my 5:45 a.m. One girl and one boy ask a question or two; the rest of thei4 classmates either sleep or quietly pass away while I'm talking. I would call my presentation a "very modest" success.
The course professor, my co-presenter, and I go out for lunch afterward. Among other points of discussion, they admire my dress. Although the comment "You look like a twist-and-turn Barbie!" might also be interpreted as an insult.
We disband just in time for me to arrive, on time, for my next meeting and presentation. No one falls asleep, mentions dolls, or prevents us from leaving a little bit early.
This unexpected gift -- an extra 15 minutes -- grants me the opportunity to stop en route to the day's final meeting. I need to pick up a birthday present for my "daughter."
I find a parking spot out front (what serendipity!), exit the car, enter the shop, and start combing the clothing racks and shelves for something she might like. I find an attractive handbag that appears to have her name on it, and pick it up. With a few minutes left to kill, I continue combing.
Suddenly, I hear a pop. I'm wearing my long, lush winter coat, so I'm sure that I've somehow popped one of its buttons. My eyes search the floor around me. They stop when they happen to notice that my dress is unzipped from hem to crotch. Luckily, I'm facing a clothes rack, and no one is facing me. I hug my coat closed and run into a try-on room, where I struggle to zip up or, in this case, zip down. Alas, the zipper won't budge an inch or any portion thereof. I button up and down my coat, pay for the purse, and steer towards my dinner meeting.
The first to arrive, I wriggle out of my coat sleeves and cover my lap with the coat bottom. When my female co-meeters sit down, I ask them to remind me that, if for any reason I have to leave the table, I must first put on my coat. Our male colleague joins us, and we're meeting while eating. I remember to don my outerwear before excusing myself to go to the restroom.
Entering, I remove my coat, turn to face the mirror, and catch sight of myself, little green jacket gaping wide open, and my zipper open to the neck.
I double over with laughter. Had I not been in a restroom, I would have fallen to the floor. I struggle to draw the zipper down, but the zipper wins the battle. I am screeching with laughter, unable to leave the little room for 15 minutes, sure that every woman in the restaurant is cursing as she waits in line for the maniac to leave the bathroom. When I finally emerge, shrouded in my winter coat, my colleagues don't seem to realize that the wardrobe malfunction has gone critical. I am having a hard time attempting not to giggle. I take my leave and my purse, and scoot to my vehicle.
Needless to say, I cannot head directly to my dancing venue. I veer off course, stopping by home. My husband opens the door, surprised to see me at 8:00 p.m.
"I'm glad you're home so early," he says, already turning towards the kitchen.
I shed my coat and jacket and follow him. "I had a bit of a mishap, today," I say.
He turns, and his eyes go wide. "Whoa!" he shouts. "You could have been arrested, driving around like that!"
"It's 12 degrees outside; I had my coat on. I'm going upstairs to change."
"Why?" he says.
I change into something safe (translation: without a zipper) and set out for the dance place. As I'm driving, I'm imagining what it would have been like to have had my zipper go offline on the dance floor. YouTube videos? Captions saying: "Don't try this at home!" or "Warning! Not suitable for children under 18...or anyone else!" Would I have had the sense to immediately grab my (poor) dance partner, clasp him to my bosom, and maneuver him -- scurrying crablike but in sync to the salsa rhythms -- to grab my coat, then back to the lady's room? Or would I have just stood there, howling with laughter and embarrassment until someone else had the good sense and uncommon decency to either knock me to the floor or cover me up with whatever random garment he or she could grab?
I'm so glad I didn't have to find out.
A few days later, I go to a tailor's shop and ask if there is any way to repair my all-season, imperfect little black dress. "Zippers are undependable," the guy tells me. So I guess, if I get it fixed, I'll have to wear it only in winter and under wraps. I sure don't want it to be "open" season on me.
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