Trust a Mirror, not a Smiling Man

Oh CRAP!  I am vowing from this moment on to always look in the mirror before I go into public.  Ready?  How's this for making your face turn red:

After dropping the kids off at school, I decided to make a quick run to that all-time favorite New England shopping destination, Ocean State Job Lot.  If you aren't familiar with this store, it's one of those places that specializes in close-outs and carries just about everything, from jars of imported pickles and olive oil to seconds from retail clothing stores. 

This is not a shopping trip you break out the Prada for.  My quest today was for dog toys.  No boutique needed for this mission, and I was in dire need of new entertainment for Pippet because she has once again turned her teeth on the tufting of my living room rug.

I was one of the first customers in the store this morning, along with a few retiree men.  And all of them were smiling at me and making their charming grandfatherly chit-chat.  How cute.  I got what I needed, and after more idle chatting, I headed home. 

After giving Pippet her reward for removing a good half dozen more tufts from the rug (yeah, I know, I'm not the Dog Whisperer), I happened to glance down as I was taking off my shoes.  The zipper on my jean skirt was all the way down.  And apparently had been since I ran out of the house with the kids first thing this morning.  So, was this the reason for all of those cute, elderly smiles and one-liners?  I cringe to think.

And this isn't the first time with the whole zipper thing.  There are many instances, one of the most embarrassing being when I was told "XYZ" by a woman whose group I was cooking a dinner for.  I had no idea what she was talking about and then remembered that was how we'd say "Your zipper is down" back in what, the third grade?  The fact that a grown woman couldn't say, "Hey--check your zipper," lessened the humiliation of the whole dopey situation. 

And there are the other recent public displays of embarrassment I have succumbed to, such as the bindi-like white paint spot on my forehead while in a bath and kitchen store, or the chewed-up hunk of rawhide that stayed attached to the front of my sweater through an entire visit to the "fancy mall" (it would have been totally appropriate for Job Lot).

All situations leading to the simple solution that I'm sure everyone else already knows and actually executes as normal practice:  Check your look before you head out, Dummy.  Or suffer the consequences and smiles from those crazy octogenarian men.