What Goes Up Must Come Down

An open letter to everyone I saw last Monday :

Yeah, I am sorry about the zipper thing. My fault, for sure. I have to tell you that I’m pretty red-faced about that one. Say, there is probably no reason to tell anybody else about that, is there? Feel free to keep that just between us guys. Am I right, ladies?

What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry my zipper was down the entire day last Monday. But what I’m also trying to say is: At any point, any of you could have politely informed me that you knew what color my boxers were because of a little lavatory lapse in normal potty protocol.

Now under normal circumstances, I zip up my pants. I don’t want any of you thinking I’m some closet pervert who stalks the world each day in a trance-like state with his zipper intentionally in the downright position. Rather, I’m merely a forgetful stooge who possesses only a few shreds of decency. I assure you, I have had this zipper problem my entire life, and it made junior high seem especially cruel.

Most of the time, it is simply a matter of getting sidetracked in the bathroom. I aim to do one thing and forget about another. Nine times out of 10, I forget to zip up because someone comes into a public restroom I’m in. I act like I’m washing my hands, you know, to appear normal and sanitary. It seems tireless at times — I would be exerting less energy if I just washed them!

I’m getting off track. What I am trying to say is that you are all partly to blame for this whole zipper thing, as well. I think they call that an accessory after the fact — after the fact being my forgetting to zip up accordingly. At any point in time last Monday, any single one of you could have had the good graces to inform me of the security breach in my britches.

I bet that many of you mocked me. For all you know, I was headed to a big job interview or a photo shoot for a new kids clothing line being released by Kmart. Those things mattered not to any of you. Instead, you went ahead and asked me how I was, what I did over the weekend and other casual social exchanges we were both obligated to recite. At some point, you must have noticed, and yet you spoke not a word. You probably just giggled like a schoolgirl after I walked away with a “get-a-load-of-this-guy-over-here” look on your face. Yeah, that’s real mature, butthead!

Actually, the more and more I think about it, all of this is your fault. I’ve just been trying to be polite about it this whole time. OK, I guess some of you acquaintance-types might have felt embarrassed to point it out to me, but a lot of you know me well. Many of you have no excuse whatsoever.

Which brings me to you, mother. Out of all people, you deceived me the most. At the end of the day when I stopped to see you, you spoke not a word of unfastened zippers. No, it was only after I arrived home when this matter was brought to my direct attention.

“You know, your fly is down,” my girlfriend, Christine, said seconds after I came through the side door. As my girlfriend, Christine has impeccable “your fly is down” radar that usually saves me every time. She’s also really good about reminding me to put on deodorant and pointing out when something is stuck in my teeth. You all could learn a lot from someone like that — from someone who isn’t afraid to keep their lips zipped when a guy’s fly is down.

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Chuck Briese, Oak Ridge Now

[avatar user="cbriese" size="thumbnail" align="left"] Chuck Briese has been a resident of South Montgomery County since 1988. He and his lovely and patient wife, Leslie, have six sons, with only one left to finish high school. Chuck has been a Cub Scout leader, a Little League baseball coach, a church youth leader, and a general troublemaker over the course of the past 25 years. He is obsessed with his lawn, and likes restaurants that serve food that fills up the plate. He has a tendency to tilt at windmills, which may explain why he started Oak Ridge Now.

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