The zipper on my sleeping bag is stuck but it’s not my sleeping bag and it’s not stuck. I seem to be establishing an unreliable narrator.
From the top of the closet, I retrieve this sleeping bag that was left with me by mistake, and, pretty darn quick, I examine the zipper.
Said zipper was misaligned—I hate that I used said. It was caught on a strip of material parallel to the zipper of the sleeping bag that I borrowed and never returned.
The very person who is good at zippers that get stuck is the same person that goes nearly uncontested when it comes to un-knotting knots. It’s the exact same one who never ceases to amaze at cracking the clues of a crossword.
But the problem with finding the right person for the job is that you have to admit you are not up to the task. I wasn’t, but didn’t want to admit this. I wanted to ask the person who was perfect for this. The person right here, right over there.
I separate that finicky fabric from the tracks laid in front and back of the locomotive engine. I rev it up and down and ouch(!), I pulled a muscle in my neck.
Meanwhile, perfect -person she, not ten feet away from me, is in her own world. Headphones dangling from inside her darling canals, she is listening to what I assume is a podcast because every once in a while I hear her laugh—quick to get a quip spoken into a microphone some time ago, some distance away, recorded, downloaded and played for her ears only. She’s entertained as she cooks us dinner.
While I toil with this belligerent, snaggle-tooth zipper I wonder why there are two zipper heads—one one each side. This setup doesn’t make sense to me. I turn the nylon (and long) maroon bag inside out, so the gray’s showing. It’s different perspective, a better angle, I try to convince no one.
I monkey the banana. I pull and peel on it like taffy. I don’t want to force it but this sack needs force or needle nose pliers at least. Because gah.
I”m out of breath. I’m worried now (or at least I was then) that this sleeping bag, brought into my life by somebody else, and now my current accommodations is stupidly important to me.
It’s not my sleeping bag. It’s my cocoon. IAnd ’m going through a metamorphosis. Or will be if I can get this this zipper. But it isn’t stuck. It’s unstuck. The zipper zips. It’s zipping!
I did it and don’t know how.
