Has anyone noticed that men at weddings often forget to zip their fly after using the men’s room? It’s common to see Dad wander out of the bog with a shirt-tail emerging from the front of his trousers like some kind of cotton-poly blend antenna. One and all gawk as he is reluctantly pulled onto the dance floor, fabric aerial clearly broadcasting a plea for help. His Honey is hyped to do the Bird Dance but rolls her eyes when she notices his trousers, all the kids are mortified, and everyone else cracks up.
Dad doesn’t want to dance at the wedding because he’s already exhausted from too much dancing. He is a committed hoofer, a full-time Solid Old Dancer. Honey fails to recognize it, but he spends all day, every day, cutting a rug, pulling off wicked-smooth moves. And, much can be explained by his undone zipper.
Dad usually wears jeans or slacks. Belt, button, zipper: Three steps. In his rarely worn Weddin’ Soot, his trousers have belt, clasp, button, zipper: FOUR steps.
Dad is wondering how much longer he must stay at this cash-bar, el cheapo nuptial and is concerned about getting dinged in the parking lot by that giant monster truck driven by the legless meathead currently sword-fighting in the stall next to him. The only attention he pays to his zippering-up is a vague count of the number of steps to accomplish the task. He’s a dancer alright, desperately channeling Michael Flatley to avoid splashes from beside him; in his haste to flee before ‘One Giant Leak for Mankind’ waters all over his nice dress shoes, he misses that all important 4th step and his shirttail now pokes out of his pants.
Later, when he gets everyone safely home he is famished and wants to make a sandwich. Into the fridge, grab the ham, cheese, pickles, and mayo. Whoa! Are we outta mayo? Dad’s SURE he bought some just yesterday. Honey, are we out of mayo? Honey stabs a finger at the full jar, disgusted with him about the zipper incident and now convinced he must have driven home drunk as a lord if he can’t locate the colossal Costco sized vat of mayonnaise which should be visible from orbit. But it had been six inches to the left of its normal location.
But again, he’s a dancer. Honey, he’s not doing detective work, he’s doing a choreographed routine! Five-Six-Seven-Eight…Dada-dada-dada ZIPPER. Dada-dada-dada MAYO! He thrusts his hand out to where mayo lives but it’s not there, bringing his dazzling show-stopper to a crashing halt. This sucks. Now he must totally re-work all the steps. Honey, who has enough communication between her brain hemispheres that she can do two things at once and not merely by accident, simply writes him off as handsome but simple, useful for shoveling snow, someone large enough to hide behind if there should ever be an outburst of reckless gun-play at the mall.
Dad hangs his head, realizing that no one will ever know that he was a veritable Fred Astaire who glided with grace to the cupboard in jeans fully belted and zipped, and with catlike smoothness grasped the crock of Polski Ogorki…Which then smashed to the floor because Honey left the lid ajar. She was just going to use it again in a minute.
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