I woke this morning from a dream wherein I was in an airplane that had to make an emergency landing in a large field full of concertgoers. I was all like WHOA we are landing in a field. By the time we were nearly to the ground, the plane had morphed into a Mini Cooper and my dog was in the front seat. The landing was flawless, everyone including myself was completely impressed with the pilot, but I was a little bummed that I was stuck wearing pajamas and a trucker hat and had no makeup on.

In that vain vein, I got up and took a shower. I don’t really like taking showers first thing in the morning. I am often still completely asleep and will occasionally forget to wash the conditioner out of my hair or I will just stand there, for how long I cannot be sure, and not do anything at all while the water runs to cold. Then I feel silly and annoyed that I have to finish washing with cold water and I frown at the shower walls. It’s really better if I get up and have some coffee first. It’s good to know things.

After my shower, I put on my ZIH jeans. This is not a brand; ZIH refers to the fact that these jeans have the world’s shortest zipper. It does not go zzzzzzzzzzzzzip. It does not go zzzzip. It does not even go zip. It, less than an inch long, goes zih. Why why why why why why have a zipper at all that short? Three big buttons, and a zih. This zipper struck me as so absurd and amusing that I simply had to purchase the jeans.

As you would guess, they are ridiculously low. It’s possible they do not even cover my hipbones or my ass valley. I must wear a belt with the ZIH pants or it is a Washington State misdemeanor. I do the general public a favor and also always wear a longish shirt over them because, frankly, no one wants to know the information given if I have to bend over and pick up a dropped restaurant napkin or something. I am thoughtful like that. All this effort, just for a zipper that makes me laugh. ZIH!

It’s been a really long time since I had such low pants, probably 1974 or 1975 or so. I don’t think I really even had hips to place them on then. But I liked them, they suited me better than the uncomfortable and unflattering high-waisted pants that arrived soon after. But there was no option to keep wearing the low pants; by the time the high pants came back, the low pants were sluttish and old-fashioned and hippie-ish, and were unacceptable in the Teenage Fashion Pavilion that was Oconomowoc Junior High School. Why did I care? Well, I know why I cared, but it is so silly. Waistband up, waistband down, jeans dark, jeans light, flares, no flares. They keep changing it, and we keep buying it.

But I am glad to say that it seems there is more choice in fashion than ever before. You can actually find something that both flatters you and seems fresh. Is this important? Does it cure cancer? Well, MAYBE IT DOES, MAYBE IT DOES, DAMMIT.

The next time I go flying in a Mini Cooper in my dreams I simply must remember to take along some makeup and a change of clothes. You’d think I’d have that down by now.