Unzipped! I have this pair of tailored slacks that have been making life miserable for me. It's this faulty zipper, see - well, I didn't mean for you to actually look. Anyway, this zipper just uh, opens whenever it feels like it. It doesn't unzip, exactly. It opens from the bottom up. Fortunately, it hasn't gotten stuck that way - yet. So far, I've been able to zip it down, then back up, and everything is fine. This has occurred on at least three occasions, and each time I think, "Okay, these are the blue ones. I'll either get them fixed or toss them." Then I get home in the evening, take 'em off, and forget about it. Until the next time. It's two weeks ago. I'm at work. Down to deadline. I'm behind, trying to hurry. I'm coming out of my office when I feel the front of my pants separating. Lucky timing. I cut to the right, down the hall and into the men's room. Nobody had a chance to see. I can even laugh about it. Then, last week I was at the police station, making notes off the daily blotter, when somebody came in the front door. All of a sudden I felt a cool breeze in a place I know I'm not supposed to feel a breeze, you know? So there I was trying to act nonchalant, but fumbling all over the place, trying to cover myself with my notepad. I could picture the police lieutenant walking up, looking at me and shaking his head in disgust. "Hey scumbag, I think maybe you and I ought to have a talk in the back. We got a place for degenerates like you." But the person coming through the door wasn't a cop; he was the news director at the radio station. I don't know if he realized my problem or not, but I'm sure he thinks I'm the rudest guy he's ever met. And this past week. This past week was the worst of all. I was pasting up a page in the composing room when my hand brushed the front of my slacks. And I knew. There I was, Mr. Editor, trying to show some authority, people all around me, and my pants were unzipped. And I don't even know how long they had been that way. Is there a worse feeling in the world? Well, let me ask you this. Have you ever tried to work your way around a counter, turn a corner and get past a soft drink machine - all the time hugging the wall - and make conversation? It's hard to look natural doing that. As I made my way by the soft drink machine and into the men's room I remember thinking, "It probably doesn't look that bad. Probably, no one could tell it was open. And then I looked in the mirror, and I realized that, no, anyone would have to have been blind not to notice. Now today - you guessed it - I've got those same slacks on again. And because I know that the zipper will eventually do its thing, I keep checking. Just reaching down and making sure. And I'm starting to get some strange looks from my co-workers. They don't know if I'm turning into a pervert, becoming senile already, or watching way too much baseball lately. And I would try to explain, but I'm afraid all that would do is rule out baseball. So I keep quiet, and keep checking. And when I get home, I promise, I swear on a stack of old button-up Levis, these things won't touch the ground before they land in the trash.