Living Alone

The other day, while digging in my hall closet for some shoes, my belt loop managed somehow to wind itself around the handle of the closet door. This was an unexpected complication in my running-out-the-door plan. I tried to slide it off, but it was really caught and I couldn’t swivel my neck around enough to quite see the problem. I’m not made of rubber, you know.

I stood for a few moments, shoes in hand, door attached to jeans, and reviewed my options:

1. If I was my father, I could pull the Leatherman out of its belt-holster and free myself by either cutting my belt loop (sad) or dismantling the handle. But the dismantling would have to happen blind, with my hands behind my back, and I don’t know if I trust my fine motor skills enough to carry me through the tricky project. This is the same girl who can’t plug in an appliance in the dark. I have to feel for the little holes in the outlet and try to guide the metal prongs to it and I’m always a little nervous about being electrocuted. Plus, no Leatherman. So, moot.

2. If I was Wonder Woman, I could unbutton my pants and pull myself out of them using nothing but upper body strength and the door jam. But, as we all know, Wonder Woman doesn’t wear jeans (it’s like her kryptonite).

3. I could wait for the next two hours until the guys across the hall got home from work and then yell at them through my front door. But, I couldn’t open the front door unless the closet was closed, and I couldn’t close the closet unless I was inside of it. And they already think that I’m nuts.

4. Wriggle.

For those of you who want closure, I went with option four. Eventually, through some very complicated maneuvers that I’ll never be able to replicate on the dance floor, I was free.

But other than the danger of freak belt-loop-induced starvation, the solitary life ain’t bad.