Asheville Citizen-Times 01/26/2014 –
I never try on pants in a store. Men don’t. But now I’m trapped. A wedding is approaching and I need a new suit. I offer to forget the ceremony.
I lose. Earth and Mars could be locked in a galactic laser battle, cities like Dallas pulverized with each colossal blast, and I’d still be going to the wedding. It’s a woman thing.
Saturday morning, I approach the combination dry cleaner/tailor to have my pants altered. I walk inside and face a counter that extends wall-to-wall across the middle of the store. A long line of sleepy people reaches to the door, each individual with a bundle of dirty laundry under one arm and a Starbucks in their free hand.
On the wall to the right of the line is the changing room. It resembles a wider, deeper voting booth. I step inside and pull the floor-length curtain closed.
With a little speed I figure I’ll finish in ten minutes: tailor in; tailor out. I remove my jeans. I push my left leg into the new trousers, but when I attempt to slide my right leg forward, my big toe gets caught in the lining and I begin to lose balance. I desperately try to grab hold of something—anything—but only grasp air!
With the pant’s fabric jammed between my first and second toes, wild-eyed, overweight, half out of my pants, I uncontrollably hop sideways, crashing through the curtains like a deranged kangaroo. I plow through the line of people, scattering them like bowling pins, before I collide with the far wall and collapse to the floor.
I free my toe and pull my pants up. “Sorry, everyone,” I mumble as I step over the spilled coffee and hurry to my safe haven behind the curtain.
People believe that if they can’t see me, I can’t hear them. The laughter begins. “Hey, did you see that guy?” “Mario, lend me your security tape so I can put it on YouTube.”
I slide open the curtain and take a deep bow that is greeted by applause, more laughter, and a couple of handshakes and back slaps.
I’m sorry I’m becoming an urban legend, but even sorrier I was wearing the red-heart boxer shorts my wife gave me on Valentine’s Day.
The tailor comes by. After he pins the pants, he says, “You took a funny fall. You had a Rocket Splashdown.”
“A Rocket Splashdown?”
“You go flying in the air,” he flaps his arms like a bird, “then land in the spilled coffee.” He imitates the sound of a huge splash, complete with flickering fingers indicating the force of the spray.
“Oh, I see.” I thank him for his creative reenactment of my misfortune.
I’ve changed back into my jeans and am ready to leave. The last man in line has just finished dropping off his dry cleaning. He looks at me. “Too bad about the hearts on the boxer shorts.”
“Well, yeah. I have to wear them once in a while.”
“They from your wife?”
“Who else?”
“I thought maybe a girlfriend.”
“Do I look like I have a girlfriend?”
“Excellent point. I got the same pair from my wife. Valentine’s Day. You know, it’s a woman thing.
I nod. “Same as weddings.”
“Exactly. Anyway, the shorts were good for the Rocket Splashdown.”
He overheard the tailor! Now I’m growing concerned. Two men have called my fall a Rocket Splashdown. Forget the astronauts, I fear I’m becoming generic—synonymous with a thundering, embarrassing crash. Suddenly I’m afraid that when people Google Rocket Splashdown, they’ll find a picture of me in mid-air trying to hold my pants up. I’ll be universally humiliated!
“Actually, it’s not so bad,” my new best friend says. “Rocket Splashdown sounds like a professional wrestling move and you could say you invented it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You tell everyone you created a signature wrestling maneuver called the Rocket Splashdown. Fans will know it was you. You could get on TV. It’s a win-win.”
This guy is a genius. I’m an inventor like Thomas Edison. I study him. “I understand the first win of a win-win is being on TV, but what’s the second win?”
“People will forget that you looked like Jackie Gleason skipping across a bed of hot coals.”
Later, at home, I explain to my wife what happened and categorically state that I could not have been the first man to fall through the curtain.
She looks at me with her head cocked to the side. “Oh, I think you were. You’re special.”
Okay. Okay. Maybe I was the first one, but at least I’m special. I feel much better. I’m thinking career change—professional wrestling circuit for me. I attempt a Bruce Lee Flying Crescent Kick that very nearly results in an unintended Rocket Splashdown.
She watches. “You are special.”
I’m pleased. My wife recognizes talent. It’s a woman thing.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction or distribution is prohibited without permission.