There was also that one time, back when I was still sort of quiet and reserved, when I was sitting on the piano bench at a gathering and then... well, that story's not really funny-embarrassing. It's more the kind of embarrassing where you feel sorry for the person it happened to. The kind of story that ends with nervous laughter or, worse, silence. Therefore, I'm not going to go there either.
So, what story do I tell when asked about my most embarrassing moment? I guess it always goes back to The Cup Story. So, for those of you who know me, I apologize, as you've likely already heard this story before.
It all started in my friend Holly's living room.
I had gone to her apartment to hang out, and there he was... her brother, Ted. He was laying on the couch, watching TV, as Holly and I went about our business. The fact is (and I am not proud of this), at the time I was pretty much infatuated with anyone who was male and paid any attention to me at all. I noticed Ted was watching us... and that was all the encouragement I needed.
In those awkward teenage years there was one thing I knew for certain: guys liked funny girls. And so I tried to think of something witty to say. Nothing was coming to me. Ted was still watching.
As Holly was talking to me I looked around and found a small, plastic object sitting on the counter. Its shape was such that it made me think of a walkie-talkie. I grabbed it and pulled it to my mouth, responding to Holly's dialogue with, "That's a big 10-4, good buddy." Holly laughed. I was clever! Hilarious! Witty!
I stole a sideways glance at Ted. He was still watching me, his eyes open wide. Yes, I thought. I have his attention. Before we know it, he'll be asking me to prom.
"Over and out!" I spoke into the plastic, holey walkie-talkie. Ted sat up. He was going to talk to me! Holly just kept laughing.
"Um, Gerb..." he started, obviously uncomfortable. "That's my cup."
"What? This thing?" I asked, inspecting it from all angles. "With all these holes, it must not hold much water!" I retorted, tipping the 'cup' to my mouth as I pretended to drink from it.
"No... I mean, it's my cup," he answered, looking slightly disgusted. "Not like a drinking kind of cup."
"There is no way this thing is a cup," I answered, smiling at him demurely as I batted my eyelashes in his direction.
Ted looked to Holly for assistance. She was trying hard not to wet herself. He continued, painfully. "You know how I play football? Well... that's my athletic cup," he explained, motioning toward his nether-region with a cupped hand.
Oh. His cup. That cup. I am sure I turned 37 shades of red. I quickly set it back down and tried to play it cool. But honestly, how do you recover from that kind of social suicide?
The answer? You really can't.