The Zipper Crisis

I can be a little stubborn at times - or all the time.

Yesterday, I bought some new-old shoes from a designer consignment store on Royal. Snakeskin pink and black, shortened spikes on the heels - made in Italy. Who am I anymore? I thought as I slid my french-tipped pedicured toes right in. Not too comfortable, but neither a painful deal-breaker. They would go perfectly with my linen dress, the kind that hugs each curve, but has fat overall-style straps - and of course the newsboy hat. To complete the ensemble: tortise shell Wayfarers (also Made in Italy) and a vintage clutch. I belong to New Orleans in the 1920's. On my way to a speakeasy - a lady, you wouldn't expect to see the rouge on my knees.

When I purchased the shoes, I decided that I would wear this outfit to buy a chocolate croissant and cafe au lait from a charming vendor the very next day (as I had already committed to a black cocktail dress and shoes reminiscent of Dorthy from the Wizard of Oz for the night). And I would sit and watch and spend time in my thoughts.

This morning came bright and sunny - I lounged in bed with a book, took a bath, and lotioned up and primped and prepped and painted my eyes and mouth. I was ready for the world. When I stepped into the dress, the zipper caught. Now, the dress fits, but has no room for forgiveness. Like a glove along my body. I realized that the zipper was catching on a little snag in the fabric and I was unable to shimmy it out. But that did not stop me from trying - trying the zipper up and down, pulling, tugging, twisting, pushing, squeezing tooth by tooth to bring the dress together until my finger started to bleed.

I was a fool for traveling without a sewing kit, safety pin or pair or pliers! I had to solve this problem with the tools available: my bleeding finger and manicure set. I used the clear polish to seal the hole - thinking the zipper would have nothing to catch on. A brilliant idea! It did not work.

Desperate and stuck in the dress at this point, I phoned a friend. She was unable to come help, but suggested I rip the zipper apart and take the dress to a seamstress.

Give up? UNHEARD OF! I explained to her as calmly as any crazy woman can that if I take the dress off, I will not be going to a seamstress, I will be staying in my hotel room all day naked. I wanted to wear my outfit and would entertain not a single other scrap of fabric my closet had to offer.

She told me to call her back when I solved the problem.

I toyed with the idea of begging the cleaning lady to help me zip up - I just needed one more set of hands, I knew it would work, the dress fits perfectly, it's just a zipper malfunction. She would understand, any woman would.

But I had to try one last time....
I got the zipper down, took the dress off and zipped the zipper up just past the unforgiving snag. Then, I threw the dress over my head and shimmied right into it. Less than 5 seconds later, the zipper was up and I was on my way out the door.

I had woken up at 9 and was out the door by 12:45.

You may ask, "was it worth it?" Half your day spent fighting a zipper. A torn up left index finger, wrinkles on a freshly dry cleaned dress, and blisters on your feet from the angry Italian shoes.

The compliments I received, both verbal and non, were quite nice. But walking the french quarter in the shoes of a classic beauty, feeling my skin glisten in the heat of the afternoon, and savoring the salty-sweetness of a flaky croissant melt on my tongue made the zipper crisis an utterly worthwhile endeavor.