On zippers, single girls, and some casual flashing.

I just got back from a year s̷a̷m̷p̷l̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷f̷o̷o̷d̷s̷ ̷o̷f̷ ̷t̷h̷e̷ ̷w̷o̷r̷l̷d̷ ̷ working remotely and may have packed on a few (read: 15) pounds. But whatever. I’m a strong, independent, body-positive, single female living in NYC. A few pounds aren’t going to stop me from hitting the town and meeting some fellas, right?


Being a single gal alone in New York can be great. There’s always a middle spot open at the bar. I can play with my friends’ babies and then come home and get a full night’s sleep. I can binge old episodes of Jane the Virgin in my underwear, with the blinds open, obviously, because who really cares about strangers seeing you naked (FORESHADOWING. I DO.). I can pretend to be available and interested in making long terms plans with guys while simultaneously booking a one way ticket to Capetown. And I can zip up my own damn dresses.

Err. Maybe not on that last one. The evening of my second date with a delightfully accented Kiwi, the dress I chose (something that would have been considered baggy before I left on my world e̷a̷t̷i̷n̷g̷ ̷a̷n̷d̷ ̷d̷r̷i̷n̷k̷i̷n̷g̷ adventure) came close to zipping up, but it was more of a two hand job. My doormen are all old, sheepish men. My neighbor is too deaf to hear the doorbell. I check it out in the mirror and it seems to be staying up okay enough, so I grab a cardigan to cover the opened back and run to catch my Uber.

The minute I sit down in the cab I know I’m in trouble. Otis, my elderly Dominican driver, starts to turn around to check that I’ve gotten settled in okay and *BAM*. There are my boobs. There are my boobs in his face. Poor Otis. He blushed and was all “honey are you okay” and I’m blushing too and hyperventilating in the backseat trying to cover up. I just flashed Otis and I’m about to sit down at a restaurant on my date and jump straight to second base with him and the rest of the restaurant.

Okay. Breathe. Hold up the dress. Try harder to zip it. Fail. Think. Text girlfriends. They advise that it’s not weird to ask a lady stranger to zip you up. I disagree and decide that’s too weird. (Discussion point for the comments below: do you think it’s weird to zip up a stranger?) Plan B. Find someone trustworthy. I’m luckily a few minutes early and ask Otis to please update my destination to the one and only Air’s Champagne Parlor where I know I might find some ladies I know. Sure enough Amanda, who I’ve met maybe once, greets me with a hug and an offer for a table. I furtively pull the poor girl out onto the stoop and ask her to zip me, right there on MacDougal street with a host of patrons watching curiously.

Crisis averted. But holy embarrassment.

And that’s the story of how the RY15 led me to become a flasher.

Moral? Don’t be an idiot and think you can fit into old clothes after a year of churros and pastel de nata. But really, it’s that babes and bubbles stick together, even when your clothes don’t want to stick to you. Oh and Otis, 5 stars to Otis. And 2 tits for good measure ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

Worth it.
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