Zippers

A couple of months ago I was sitting in the Beamer Center talking on the phone, when Karen gave me a look. The "your zipper is down" look. (It is important to have friends of this high quality around.) It had been down all afternoon. This would be an embarrassing story if I stopped there, but it goes on. Later that day, in the privacy of my room, I zip my zipper down to see just how bad it must have looked. Some down zippers don't matter, but in these high waisted jeans, they did. And then the door bell rings and I run halfway down the stairs and there is a guy there I'd really like to impress. Of course I notice him looking at my zippered down zipper, and of course there is nothing I can do but stand there and talk as he is eye level with said zipper (due to the stairs). It was like a twisted Shakespeare balcony scene.That's pretty much where it ends, except yesterday during improv I have to do a monologue around the word "zipper" and of course that story comes to mind. And I had to tell it as a triathlete. It started out pretty good. I pretended I only wore spandex and wasn't familiar with these archaic zippers. But then I didn't know what to say next, so I started jogging around the room, and it was like time stopped. The blank brain in front of a crowd is perhaps one of the worst feelings a person can have. Last time this happened I was running as well, chasing my daughter with a giblet and when I finally caught up to her, I put her in a headlock and said, "let us nibble this together." Anyway, time didn't stop, and I coughed up a few words about the three adidas stripes and took a seat. In recording my dreams, I have no new news other than all the characters in my dreams have been African American for the past four nights. Except Brittany. I have no explanations.