Howdy,
“You afraid of depths?”
Noooo … Confusion. Why?
“Your ‘zipper’ is.”
So, recently I took a restroom pit stop during one of my writing races at a “local” coffee shop—“local,” meaning in our T-Town, not local, not this time, sorry (and kind of also it is what it is, so how sorry are we really …?).
That’s what you do when you get extended hours to work in a coffee shop, take bathroom breaks. Or at least I do. I try to drink a minimum of one large (didn’t say “Venti” so you don’t know where I was for sure) cup of ice water for every coffee or tea I sip or suck down.
So, as a way of stretching my legs and back I make my way to the restroom a time or two during a long session.
All very fascinating and relevant to you the reader, right?
Sorry. I’ll try to move along.
One of those times I almost emerged from the men’s room with my fly “down.”
As I alluded three days ago, this incident of realizing that I’d come quite close to reentering the coffee shop’s populated drinking, eating, and working area with an open fly made think of why I nearly slipped into such an elementary embarrassment.
Well, looking in the mirror at the sink while washing my hands, I caught a glimpse of that gap.
Here was the deal, the reason, and even the whole purpose for why I’m writing about it—if there is a reason—button-up cords.
I was in shorts newly pulled of the warmest weather ahead. Wardrobe capsule, CA-style—which is to say contrived, but nevertheless it’s a cool idea and it works, and my wife, Sarah, rocks it! (That is to say, you should try it, too: Google “wardrobe capsule” and get rid of all your extra crap. [Can you tell I’ve been reading Dave “Say-It-Like-It-Is” Ramsey? Sure, “crap” can be crude and is to be used sparingly, but have you seen all that extra junk you’re storing? Crude and not sparingly. I’m not talking to any one—just to >90% Americans, like me. And most of you. FYI, this broadside is totally out of nowhere and catching me by such surprise that I had to make up the stat >90%. But crap is true. And has nothing to do with my trip to the loo. To the urinal.])
Again, sorry, and anyways …
I wore the fresh option of newly-capsuled shorts, blue cords with a button-up fly.
I suppose since those shorts don’t have a zipper, I had the sense to not zip it up. I twisted in the top button, as one would on most bottoms, and my conditioned psychosomatic went right along, quite content in a job complete.
In front of the mirror, I realized all this and, thinking like a writer, instantly had the clichéd “You afraid of heights?” twisted to “You afraid of depths?”—you see, because, my “zipper” was up, not down: because, you see, it wasn’t a zipper; it was a button-up fly that was open.
Oh, you had that. Got it. (And if you’re just about done reading me and my down-to-bowels frivolousness, do yourself another favor and click on the two lines below for a fun, short, watch: it’s Important.)
Well, that’s why I dared follow up on my thinking there’s something to be written down about my fresh, buttoned shorts fly.
… And believe me, there is a difference.
—Billy
And. I. Am. Out.
Word Count: 121,330 / On Pace: 121,550 / Year’s Goal: 200,000
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