In the Words of Doctor Evil, “Zzzzzzzp It!”

What is it with men and zippers? We seem to have a history of problems with them, especially when it comes to our pants. Unfortunately, I speak from experience.

Years ago, I worked on the water department for a small city. One July afternoon I was walking main-street, reading the water meters. As I walked, I felt a slight breeze penetrate my jeans just below my belt buckle. “Hmm, that’s odd,” I thought. But I continued on my way.

Twenty minutes later, I received cat calls and whistles from a group of teenage girls as they drove by in their car. “Ahhhh, you devil you,” I said to myself, “you still got it.” I’m telling you, my ego grew so large it’s a wonder my neck didn’t break from the weight of it.

This incident repeated itself three or four times, and I was really getting full of myself when a car full of guys drove past me and did the very same thing. Still, undaunted, I walked on.

It wasn’t until I’d walked half the city that I happened to glance down and notice the fly to my pants was down, and a new dilemma arose. Just how does one nonchalantly zip up one’s fly while walking a street where the majority of traffic flows? It’s not easy.

A couple of years later, I’d reentered college. One warm July morning, as I traipsed across campus, I noticed people looking my way and smiling. I was worrying over an up-coming exam, and though I took mental note of the smiles given me, it never dawned on me those smiles had something to do with my attire.

That afternoon, I was still receiving curious looks and smiles from passersby when a thought occurred to me, “oh, oh,” I said softly as I glanced down at the fly of my pants. Sure enough it was down.

After graduating from college, I moved to Branson, Missouri where I, among other things, wrote a couple of entertainment columns. Early one summer evening, at Branson’s North Beach Park, I was walking to my truck when I spied Barbara Fairchild (For those of you who are old enough, do you remember the “Teddy Bear” song. That was one of her hits) at the tennis courts. “Hey Barbara,” I yelled. “How ya doing? Did ya read my review of your morning show?”

Well, after a little chit chat, I headed home. It was there I discovered that Ms. Fairchild had probably been smiling at me throughout our conversation not because of my charming personality. No, more likely it had something to do with the fact that, once again, my fly was gaping wide open, providing, I’m sure, amusement for all who noticed.

But the granddaddy of embarrassment happened at church a couple of years ago on Mother’s Day. I was asked in advanced to give a talk that Sunday on mothers, makes sense.

The service began with announcements from the pulpit, an opening hymn by the congregation, and a prayer. It was during the opening hymn, as I was sitting on the stand in front of the whole congregation, I noticed, to my horror, my fly was undone!

I broke out in a cold sweat as an unfortunately familiar dilemma reared its ugly head. Just how does one nonchalantly zip up one’s fly while sitting where the whole congregation of one’s church can see him?

I was saved by a prayer, literally. You see, it dawned on me that during the prayer the congregation would hopefully have its collective eyes closed, and that would be my chance to save face as it were. It either worked or people were just too nice to say anything for it was never mentioned to me by anyone, including the teenagers I taught in Sunday school.

Well, from these experiences, all I can conclude is with as much trouble we men have keeping our zippers closed, it’s certainly a good thing our brains aren’t zipped into our heads—they’d be constantly falling out. Although, sometimes I’m accused of acting as if have that problem.