My son has what we call in the business, a problem “shutting the ole submarine hatch.”
Eight out of 10 times the boy goes to pee, he will undoubtedly come strutting out with his zipper wide open to the world. If he were John Holmes, he would have felt the breeze and nipped that little zipper problem in the bud a long time ago. But he’s only seven, and he’s packin’ heat the only way a seven-year-old can, and has no idea his junk has only one more layer of clothing to surpass before getting a front row seat to the world outside.
So I let him know…:
- “Hey Grayson, the cucumber has left the salad my friend.”
- “Grayson! You’ve got a security breach at Los Pantaloons.”
- “Whoa there slugger, Paul and Mary aren’t here so put Peter away!”
- “Hey man…you’ve got a hole in your jeans!”
The list is long, but they all leave the boy screaming, “awe come on!!” and buckling over to quickly zip his cage up while looking around to gage the level of embarrassment he should feel.
And the messed up thing—I swear the shit is becoming contagious. I kid you not, a few weeks ago I went to spend the day with the executive director of a potential job I may get, and that’s when the zipper-down-bug struck.
I’d been there at least two hours. I’d leaned back in my chair, arms on my head all confident during conversation. I’d crossed and uncrossed my legs many times. I stood at one point to talk on the phone for a couple minutes, pacing back and forth. It wasn’t until well into the meeting, when I was doing another kicked-back movement that I happened to look down and notice my zipper had its “O-face” on.
Yeah, it wasn’t just a half-way unzip, or an unzip with a small little pooch of a hole showing…no…it was as if I’d stuck a pencil in there to prop it open as wide as it could go, hung bedazzled banners around it and shone spotlights from all angles.
I dropped the Cool Hand Luke look like a bad habit and went into, doubled-over-I-look-like-I-may-shit-myself-if-I-don’t-find-a-bathroom-NOW look—which, in retrospect, is significantly worse than letting my potential boss know that I was sporting green skibbies that day.
Continuing to act interested and engaged, I nodded, took notes and dropped mad ideas. And, when the time was right, I said, “I’m gonna take a quick break and be right back.”
This nightmare has happened two more times to me, the most recent was a couples days ago at the Museum of Science and Industry when I discovered a docent checking out my “junk.” Out of habit I lightly brushed myself to get a quick blind-man’s read on why the stares, when I felt the dreaded openness.
The boy and I will survive. We’ll make it through this tortured time in our lives. Although, it does leave many questions unanswered.
- Why the hell is this dreaded disease so contagious?
- Will the boy eventually wear his button-fly’s open?
- Will that problem then head north and leave him with the horrific disease of Leaving-Your-Shirt-Half-Unbuttoned-So-Everyone-Can-See-The-Wolly-Mammoth-On-Your-Chest.
- If so, will he be destined to wear gold chains and rings, too?
- Will my son become a hack bowler, drink only Budweiser (a sincere plug to this wonderful company who should definitely be advertising on my blog), and comb his hair straight back?
- At what age do people stop telling your zipper is down?
- And, why, when it’s so much fun to say, “Hey, cowboy, wanna put the gun away?”