Unzipped and Unhinged

What’s on my mind? Claustrophobia. 

As any claustrophobic knows, being inside a car (locks down; windows up), a small, windowless room, a stuck elevator, or any physical situation with no means of escape can provoke an immediate, severe, anxiety attack. Welcome to my world.

“He-e-y, baby … Try on these fur handcuffs …”

“EEEEEK!”

(“He-e-y, baby … You’re a froot loop …”)

A few days ago, I said I’d nap in the car while Himself went shopping. With claustrophobia bigger than Donald Trump’s ego, it wasn’t long before I bounded from the car to breathe the clean, fresh, and very cold air of the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall. It was such a frosty day that I brought my ski jacket and - having gained a little (heh-heh-heh) weight, tried to fasten it. 

The zipper stuck just below my crotch. I panicked. 

(A medical note: I suffer from an advanced condition known as Mature Woman’s Hips, Boobs, and Upper Arms. There was no way, no how, no where I could slip outta that jacket, especially in the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall.) 

Hyperventilating, I paced around the car, consciously suppressing the desire to scream because I was imprisoned in a 20-year-old Helly Hansen ski jacket with a stuck zipper. It was then I saw my prince, the man who would free me from this claustrophobic nightmare.

He had a broom. And a step-on dustpan. And a glassy look in the eyes of his very bored face. I guessed him to be 19, marking time until he could achieve his true calling as a nuclear physicist. 

“Help! Help!” I cried in my Weak Little Woman’s voice. The sleeves of my jacket flapped feebly, my Mature Woman’s Upper Arms being pinioned inside them. The kid gave me a dull look and continued sweeping.

“H-E-E-LP!!!” came my feeble cry. “H-E-E-LP!!! H-E-E-LP!!!” That got his attention. “My zipper’s stuck! I can’t get free!”

Staring at the frozen zipper just below my crotch, he handed me his broom and his dustpan and furiously set to work. UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN! The zipper didn’t budge.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“GET IT UP!” I screamed, upon which I instinctively realized that anyone passing by (which thankfully, no one did) might get the wrong idea about the kid’s zealous UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN-UP-DOWN motion near my crotch. 

In a parking lot. With basically no one around. As I carried a broom. Presumably to return the favor. 

“What time is it?” he asked. 

“One o’clock,” I snapped, upon which he wordlessly took back his broom and his dustpan and trotted off to lunch. I stayed stuck until Himself returned from shopping. With the deft hand of a man accustomed to - well, never mind what he's accustomed to - Himself unstuck my zipper. This is a true story.

But what if … what if … I’d called 911, sobbing and hysterical as someone (we won’t name any names) with claustrophobia can easily become. And what if …

“911! Ambulance, police, or fire?”

“Fire Department! Hur-ry! Puh-leeze! I’m stuck in the upper parkade of a Big City shopping mall! I can’t get free! I’m trapped! H-H-H-H-HE-E-LP!!!” And then I’d faint, the phone slipping from my limp hand as my Weak Little Woman’s voice trailed off to nothingness. 

Which is the when, why, and how the 10 burly fire fighters would have come running. Sadly, that part of the story isn’t true. 911 would never have dispatched the fire department for such a flimsy request. They would have sent a therapist.

© Nicole Parton, 2019