A long time ago when the world as I knew it was young, XYZ was the polite way to inform a gentleman that his zipper was heading southwards.
This is always awkward.
Just as it is awkward to get home and find your zipper has succumbed to the power of gravity and wonder just how long your Tweetie Bird boxers have been on display.
She trips out of the ladies where she has redone her lipstick and taken care of nature, thinking she is the bee’s knees and completely unaware her skirt is tucked in her Bridget Joneses.
I think friends (and people in general) have a moral responsibility to quietly draw the attention of the unintentional flasher that is all is not well in the nether regions.
I removed my team of creative genii to the garden where we were to tackle the plans of whatever grand scheme to take over the world was on the schedule for the day.
I thought the boys were a bit more inattentive than usual.
It turned out that for thirty minutes or so my wrap dressed had unwrapped. I had on nice hot pink undies that day so at least no embarrassment there.
When I confronted the silent parties in great vengeance and furious anger, I was told sheepishly that first of they were boobs even if they were mine and secondly they were
worried if they told me I’d think they were staring at my boobs.
You know what. If I have a public wardrobe malfunction just tell me. I promise I won’t accuse you of sexism. My dignity comes first.
Shortly after the birth of my daughter I was filled with glee when I could fit into a [air of favourite old corduroys. (There were trés stylish. I bought them Paris, so no corduroy jokes.)
Off I went to meet the husband for lunch with baby in tow. I parked at the far opposite end of the mall to where we were to meet.
As I alighted from the car, my pants pocket caught on something and I yanked it free. Then I proceeded to walk the long length of the shopping mall.
When I arrived, the husband gallantly stood up to pull out my chair.
He gasped and told me to sit back down right away.
Turns out half my bottom was on display and had been the entire length of the shopping mall.
I wanted to die.
“You have to help me!” I whispered fiercely.
“What on earth do you expect me to do?” he whispered back equally fiercely.
I explained he needed to go to Benetton opposite and purchase jeans in my size post-haste. He went.
The waitress stopped to ask him if everything was okay as his wife was weeping into her cappuccino and he looked panicked.
Actually, I have no idea what he said to her except that within nanoseconds the entire restaurant knew including the kitchen staff who all trooped out for a good look-see.
Then he came back with entire staff of Benetton and a wrap.
I mustered whatever dignity I had left and swung the wrap around my waist and proceeded to buy the world’s most expensive pair of jeans.
Now, if the first person to notice has just told me, it would have been a small sting to my pride as opposed to open heart surgery without an anaesthetic.
Then a little while ago it happened to someone else. I was having a chat with two chaps I knew from another office in the same building when their boss walked up to join in.
His fly was down. I softly mentioned this to my friend who said he couldn’t tell the man, because then his boss would think he was looking where he wasn’t supposed to and think that he could be… you know.
“But you are you know,” I said.
“Yes,” he explained, “But not you know about him.”
Basically there are hundred of men and women walking about on a daily basis with loo paper on their shoes, the skirts hiked up and their flies down and no-one is saying a damn thing because they are terrified of making some sexual innuendo and being hauled up in court on harassment charges.
It is a travesty.
Not that you want it broadcast over the speaker system or anything, but still I maintain that Somebody should do Something.