Yesterday Dooce was asking about embarrassing moments. On one hand, I've got too many to count. On the other hand, I don't give a shit anymore so very little embarrasses me. One thing that embarrassed me recently was when Eduard was rude to the waiter at the Indian restaurant--POOR form! [Hey, do you know it's been over a month since I've seen him? Awesome!]
In the third grade, for reasons unbeknownst to me, my mother bullied me into wearing these ancient boy-leg panties underneath my dress. So naturally when I was talking to an older girl on the playground I really looked up to (she must have been in fourth grade), a gust of wind sprung up, lifted my skirt and exposed my horrible underwear. Everyone saw, and the reaction was immediate. No one actually laughed, I don't think, but it was like, "get away from her." Don't tell me any shit about how kids are cruel; to me, that was very adult behavior.
Once while working at this stuffy accounting firm where we had to dress "professionally" (they wouldn't let us wear jeans--or even denim shirts--on Fridays, assholes), I was bending over to refill some paper in the bottom drawer of the copier when I suddenly felt a cool draft. The back seam of my pants had completely given way, as softly and silently as perforated tissue paper. Not just an inch or two, the whole ass. I think the seam must have just been basted and not properly sewn. No one else was there except for one of the partners, and if he saw he made no indication (that particular gentleman was very nice, and gay). I was wearing old, shabby underwear, too. Anyway, I backed up against the work desk and phoned my co-worker: "Anna, it's me. I'm in the copy room. Come right now, please." In tears, I explained what happened, and she grabbed a huge wad of crumpled paper from the recycle bin and followed closely behind as we walked back to our work area. There, I sat down and Anna suggested I call Carol, who always had a sweater in the office. So I did that, but it necessitated explaining to Carol what happened, lest she think I bled all over myself, and she nearly choked trying not to laugh. So anyway, I wore the sweater around my waist, went home and changed. I could have mended the pants but I think I just gave them to charity--let somebody else deal with the muthas.
Or how about the time I was totally hot for that artist guy and thought he dug me too, so I put the cards on the table one day, only to find he was just flirting and wasn't interested after all. No, I think that's humiliating, not embarrassing. There's a difference. *sigh* To my credit, when I run into him now, instead of shying away I make a point to look him in the eye, smile, and say hello. He's the one who still makes my knees knock.
Ustabe, when I relived an embarrassing moment, I'd blush and squirm with discomfort as pronounced as when it happened. But like I said, now very little embarrasses me. One thing about my divorce, it gave me a sense of perspective: crap of that nature doesn't matter much after all.
Oh, but wait. I'd started a job at a Fortune 500 company in a high-rise in the city, and on my first day a superior named Diane took me to lunch at a swanky restaurant. While waiting for the elevator she said something to me like, "Do you need to visit the ladies' room?" to which I answered, "No, I'm fine." So we had lunch and blah blah blah. When I got back to the office and went to the john, guess what. I'd had an enormous, I'm talking humungous, booger hanging out of my nose the whole time, in front of Diane, the waiter, god, and everybody. I don't think I ever looked Diane in the eye again. Later, after I'd made a friend there, I told him about it and he laughed and said he was going to start calling me "Goob." (He didn't.) He was a total sweetheart and I've since lost contact with him. I've often wondered how he's doing. One time [in band camp] while he and I were having lunch together in his work area, I bit into my sandwich and came away with a clump of bean sprouts sticking out of my mouth like a cow. We laughed and laughed while I tried not to spray food everywhere.
posted by Newpeep, N.D. (neurotic depressive) @ 12:20 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home