The Importance of Zipping Up…and Down

There is nothing more unnerving for an independent, stubborn, single female such as myself to admit to than that I’ve run across a situation I can’t handle alone. This is why, after independently and effectively dealing with realtors, veterinarians, moving companies, challenging clients and the occasional bothersome neighbors, it was so distressing to find myself nearly vanquished completely by something as ubiquitous as a zipper.

Yet that’s exactly what happened yesterday morning although it truly started on Sunday, when I ventured out in a beautiful storm of heavy, wet and much-anticipated snow to do my part in stimulating the economy by finishing my holiday shopping and indulging in my own semi-traditional year end ‘picking up a few things’ for myself. Four pairs of shoes, one set of wall sconces, all new bathroom towels, a new shower curtain and shower curtain liner, new bath mat, kitchen rug, three blouses and two black and white dresses I succumbed to at the last minute because 70% off is something I’m convinced no woman with more than $20 in her wallet and full control of her mental faculties would walk away from. The breezy black and white dress would be perfect for the Business After Hours event on Thursday, paired with a black belt, short jacket, and one of the four pair of shoes. The cap-sleeved, scoop neck, black bodice dress with the hounds tooth, A-line, belted skirt would be just the thing for Monday morning, paired with the right jacket, which I quickly hung with the dress once I got home, setting the new shoes and black and silver jewelry out to go with it and thereby becoming all set for the next morning.

That is where my demise began. I got up after only slightly assaulting the snooze alarm, took Basil out for her walk, returned her home to The Today Show (She watches, I swear. If the TV is off, she will sit on the couch and stare at me. If the TV is on, she will disregard me completely and stare at the TV. She likes keeping up on what’s going on in the world and I appreciate that as I often get too busy to keep up with it and need to consult her for the occasional crucial update, like how many women has Tiger Woods been with as of now and are you serious, where did he find the time?), retrieved Bloss from his kennel, taking him for a walk and returning him home, hit the shower, tackled my hair and, as we females say, “put my face on”, managed to don nylons without a snag (always a small victory) and stepped into the dress. Proceeded to zip it, realizing as the zipper was approximately in the middle of my shoulder blades that basically, well: Houston, We Have A Problem.

Struggling at that point to reach over my own shoulder to re-grasp the zipper and coerce it upward, it dawned on me that I had not, apparently, worn a dress with a back zipper at any point in the past five years that I’ve lived alone. I’d somehow managed in that time to forget the simple reality that back-zip dresses are best left to those with another human being in residence who can assist with them. Realizing this did not, however, deter me from continuing to struggle valiantly and while I managed to move the zipper maybe one tiny centimeter upward it crossed my mind I may have to accept defeat, and for perhaps the thousandth time since she moved, I wished Lainie was across the hall once more. I needed a rescue.

That really bothered me.

I couldn’t believe and wouldn’t accept that after everything I’d successfully gone through in five years, I was about to be defeated by a dress. This explained why at that point, I resorted to semi-drastic measures and spent close to ten minutes
nearly dislocating my shoulder and I’m convinced putting a kink in my neck by twisting myself into the contortions necessary to finally grasp the zipper and force it upward, battling against defeat and absolutely refusing to go into the office and ask one of my girlfriends there to ‘zip me the rest of the way up’. That, for some reason only an overly-stubborn, independent, absolutely bull-headed, single female such as myself would perhaps understand, was not an option.

I’m inordinately proud to admit the zipper zipped, and the moment it did I truly felt to be champagne worthy, if only it hadn’t been only slightly shy of eight in the morning. What a feeling to have come so close to defeat, and sidestepped it. To be able to say I’ve successfully weathered not only divorce, relocation, and the perils of the single world and innumerable depressing blind dates but by gosh, I could zip my own dresses, too. It was empowering, more so than a particularly punchy Suze Orman column in Oprah Magazine and that moment, coupled with the moment that evening when, with surprisingly less contortions I was able to unzip the dress myself, completely and totally made my day.

And, oddly enough, gave me just that much more hope for the future.