My favorite black skirt is knee-length and Italian — and thus, dangerous.  “Dangerous” may conjure visions of heedless pursuits involving Vespas and Alfa Romeos, fine glasses of Chianti and pasta, turquoise seas and dark-haired men. But no. When I say that the skirt is dangerous, I am referring to the zipper that runs entirely down the back, bisecting the skirt in two, with a tab to unzip it from the top and a tab to unzip it from the bottom. On one hand: The zipper gives the skirt a terrific, sleek fit. On the other hand: The zipper has introduced an entirely new way of walking — perhaps an Italian way of walking — into my life. One long, quick, American stride, and the joke is on me: The bottom tab shoots up and unzips the skirt. So the skirt demands mincing and mindful steps, leaving me constantly on red alert to perform a quick and seamless backward bend to tug down on the upward-creeping zipper.

I tell you this about my favorite black skirt so that you can understand exactly what happened last week. My daughter needed to run a few errands, wanted a snack, and invited me to accompany her as chauffeur and financier. I jumped at this arrangement; I am willing to offer money, food, and driving in exchange for her time. So while wearing this skirt on our Wednesday outing, I passed a store, where I saw something I had to try on. It was pink, and it had polka dots, and like a raccoon and shiny objects, it exerted an irresistible lure.

I used to think that that whole-raccoon-and-shiny-objects thing was overstated until I went on vacation with my sister a few years ago. We stayed at a nice resort, and when dinnertime rolled around that first balmy night, we noticed plenty of seats outside, in prime areas overlooking the bay. We could not believe our good luck. Within moments, it became clear that the resort had a raccoon infestation. But it was a resort, and it wanted to be fancy, so it set the outdoor tables with silver water pitchers. The glint of the pitchers attracted the raccoons, and as terrified diners sat at beautifully set tables, the little bandits would come out of nowhere, barreling toward the water pitchers. Only one waiter was brave enough to risk rabies. With broom in hand, he would shoo the creatures off, a tactic that was successful for maybe three seconds. We ate inside for the remainder of the week, as did everyone who had been at the resort for more than a single night.

But on Wednesday, there was no waiter, and there was no broom, and I could withstand the eye-rolling of my 16 year-old daughter when I promised to try on only one thing. It was almost not a lie — I tried on three things, none of which worked — and then I put my own things back on. That’s where it got dicey: I zipped my shirt into the back zipper of my skirt.

I will hand it to Italian zippers: They are unbelievably tenacious. So I struggled awhile, and I struggled some more, and while I could I rip my shirt (which I did several times), I could not free my shirt from the zipper. At some point, a light bulb shined over my head: I could simply unzip the zipper from the hem up and remove my shirt from the top zipper tab. As I mentally applauded my own unbelievable tenacity, I zipped the bottom zipper into my underwear.

I have told a few people this story, and they have all had a single question: How does one zip a zipper into her underwear?

Talent, I suppose.

I was trapped in a small dressing room with terrible lighting pondering my predicament. I wish I could say I had a major revelation, but no, that was not the case. I thought about things like vanity sizing. (Vanity sizing is clearly one of the things that makes America great, for as a skirt travels from Italy to the states, it magically shrinks from a size 44 to a size 40 in France to a size 12 in the UK to a size 8 in the states.) I thought about how this would end. (Would the skirt survive? Would I simply wrap something around me and hope that Chris, the very master of patience, could untangle me?)  With the back zipper of my skirt cannibalizing my other garments, I wondered why this store had invested in perhaps the worst dressing room lighting ever. And I realized that while I typically enjoyed most interactions with strangers, beckoning to a sales clerk for help in this situation would not be one of them. So I took a deep breath, cursed for good measure, tugged mightily, somehow liberated all of the fabric impeding the zipper, and with mincing and mindful steps, strolled out of the dressing room like nothing had happened.

The entire way home, I wondered if I could survive and thrive in a zipper-free life. Sure, it would be a big commitment, rendering a giant swath of my closet unwearable: All of my pants, most of my skirts and dresses, a few shirts and jackets, about half of my purses. But the Amish did it.  As I pulled into the drive and walked to the front door, I noticed that the mail carrier had left a box. It was a butter churn. After thinking about the Amish, it surely was a sign. (It actually was a very late birthday gift to my husband from his mother.) And I thought about a parallel life for myself, a life free of zippers and adornment, simple and plain, full of homemade butter, and I laughed until I cried.

* * * * *

I furiously wrote this last night in the hour before dinner, trying hard to cram one more thing into my day. I hit “publish” and sent the essay out into the world before I lost my courage. I stewed about it, for I felt like there was something I missed. Then I remembered showing this picture to a friend a few weeks ago. It is a pansy blooming in a crack in a parking lot:

”

“Oh,” she said, “that’s a God wink.” I had not heard the term before, and I am not sure of exactly what it means, but I think of it as a strange coincidence, an unexpected thing of beauty, a moment of serendipity. They are all around. You just have to have the right perspective. A chartreuse luna month on a fence post. Lizards keeping me under surveillance in the garden. A dime on the ground. The fleeting sight of an owl flying overhead at night. A dog’s smile. Even a raccoon infestation at a posh resort.

I was about to write that it had been a busy week, but that is not particularly true. Yes, it was busy, but all weeks seem busy. There is work, and there are teenagers, and there is a marriage, and there is an old house, and there are bills, and there is an ancient dog. There I was, In the midst of everything. As I stood in the dressing room Wednesday, I had those thoughts that I have already told you about, but I had a few more. That I had my impatience to blame for the very hungry zipper. That I should have listened to my daughter when she said to keep walking. That I felt terrible that she was wandering aimlessly through the aisles as I engaged in an epic battle of metal teeth versus fabric.

But this is also true: I really enjoyed the laugh. It is so easy to take one’s self so seriously, only to be confronted with a completely absurd situation. Exactly how often does one zip a zipper into her underwear, ponder the merits of becoming Amish, and arrive to find a butter churn on her doorstep? Not often, no, and perhaps not often enough.

ALC