Zippers

SANITY ON BACKORDER

From Hive Peak Boulevard

By Danu Marche

Humor Columnist

Published: April 12, 2026

Synapse & Spectacle

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This week, my zipper filed for worker’s comp.

I knew the day would come. This morning, while rushing out the door, my coat zipper decided to stage a sit-in halfway up my torso — just high enough to trap me, but low enough to expose my sternum to the wind like some avant-garde fashion statement. Every tug was met with the obstinate refusal of a toddler who’s just learned the phrase “You’re not the boss of me.”

And so, instead of walking to my car like a functioning adult, I spent ten full minutes doing the universal “stuck zipper shuffle”: one foot braced, elbows out, muttering threats in a register only dogs could hear. I tried patience. I tried reason. At one point, I tried seduction — promising to oil it later if it’d just work now. The zipper was unmoved.

The absurdity, of course, is that zippers are either perfect little miracles or tiny brass tyrants. When they’re good, they’re invisible. When they’re bad, you find yourself trying to Houdini your way out of a jacket in a public restroom while a stranger silently debates whether to offer help or call security.

Midway through my battle, I remembered the “over-the-head method,” a maneuver in which you accept the zipper’s dominance and attempt to peel the entire garment off like you’re shedding a human skin. This works in theory. In practice, it results in a neck cramp, an unflattering hair situation, and a slow backward fall onto the couch that makes you wonder if this is how you go out.

Meanwhile, life outside my zipper crisis continued. Case in point: today’s squirrel sighting. It was perched on the corner of the neighbor’s garden trellis, holding a plastic takeout container lid over its head like a shield. No rain, no sun — just sitting there, adjusting its position every so often like it was waiting for incoming fire. At one point it glanced my way, tapped the lid twice, and vanished into the hedge as if summoned to a classified operation.

Back inside, I finally freed myself by pulling with such force that the zipper skipped three teeth and shot straight to my chin in a move that felt both triumphant and vaguely dangerous. There was no in-between. One second: stalemate. Next second: accidental supersonic ascent.

And here’s the thing — the emotional whiplash of zipper warfare lingers. You don’t just zip up and move on. No, you walk around all day in a tense détente with your clothing, aware that one wrong move could return you to the battlefield.

So for now, my coat and I are coexisting. I’ve agreed to approach the zipper with gentle hands and kind words. The zipper has agreed to function under protest. And we both know that, come the first truly cold morning, this truce will crumble.

“If your zipper has ever chosen violence, I’d like to hear about it. And maybe how you negotiated your release — in case I need a Plan B.”

©2026 Danu Marche