Atalanta

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How many of you have ever started dating because you were too lazy to commit suicide? – Judy Tenuta -

I have to agree with Lori that life…well, my life anyway, is just a series of embarrassing moments. Actually, there are degrees of embarrassment aren’t there?  There’s the “oops, wasn’t that cute or funny” kind of embarrassing. Those usually involve falling down, or ice cream in the face or the dreaded wardrobe malfunctions of life. Then, there are the really abject humiliations. These can occur when you insert your foot into your mouth so far you could bite your own kneecap, or when your own selfish behavior comes back to haunt you. And sometimes, humiliation and embarrassment can be heaped-upon-your-head by someone else.

I have had plenty of the first kind, some of which I’ve written about in the past few years here on 4P.  Like the time I fell off the treadmill at the gym (because it was dark). Or the time I fell off the trail while hiking on Y-Mountain (because I have feet). Or the time the woodland creatures at Girl’s Camp reminded me just how disenchanted and un-Disney-princess-like I am.  Then of course I’ve had plenty of the second kind too.  There was the time I realized I had been calling one of the dads from the ballroom team by the wrong name for like a whole year. Actually this same thing kind of happened again in my Sunday school class just last week.  I’d been calling a kid by the wrong name for like two months since he moved in.  In my defense though, it’s not like either of them said anything.  Which I suppose I can understand because there is a lady at work that I’ve known for about 3 years now who calls me by the wrong name all the time and I haven’t told her either.  And besides being simply clueless sometimes, there are lots of times that I have been just plain thoughtless in my behavior.  I look back of some of the things I have said or done …I’m embarrassed and I wish, I wish I could take it back.

But the one I’m thinking about today is actually one of the third kind.  The one where humiliation is heaped-upon you by someone else. Sometimes it’s because they are just plain being mean, but sometimes it’s because they’re trying to do something nice….something for your own good even and it just goes horribly wrong.

I had one of those happen to me only a few weeks ago...and it was pretty bad.

I have a friend, a relatively new friend who just finalized her divorce a few months ago and so, like myself, is now single.   I have been single for coming up on four years now and have only very recently started thinking that maybe being alone isn’t exactly what the doctor ordered…even though I’m pretty sure it probably is.  I am very different from my friend.  She has been officially single for about 4 months and is signing up for dating sites and basically putting herself out there to take another swing at wedded bliss.  It seems to have worked for her because she has found a new relationship that she seems to be enjoying and who knows where it could go?

I am happy for my friend if she is happy and I admire her courage. But my friend, on the other hand, is worried about me. I guess basking in the glow of new romance really makes her want to share the love and she has really been encouraging me to put myself out there too.  She has even coerced me into signing up for an online dating site.  You may be thinking “online dating site? Wow that is really embarrassing.” You’re right, it is (at least for me), but wait, there’s more.

After I signed up for the site she actually expected me to do something with it…you know…talk to men and even arrange to meet someone. This whole thing hooks directly into every awkward and inadequate feeling I’ve ever had about myself from the time I realized I’d probably grown into too much of a girl to play tackle football with the boys anymore. I don’t think I’m a troll or anything. I have, after-all, managed to get two men to marry me -  but it’s not like it was love at first sight.  I kind of had to grow on them….over long, long periods of time…you know, wear them down.   I’m just not the kind of girl a man is going to notice while picking out tomatoes at the grocery store and then follow around for her number.  On the other hand my friend is exactly the kind of girl a man would stalk up and down every isle in the grocery store for her number. But you see, my friend is a kind, kind soul who I genuinely don’t think really understands the difference between the kind of girl she is and the kind of girl I am.  She sees admirable qualities in me that she thinks men would respond to.  I appreciate that, I do.  But I've also spent enough nights sitting home without a date and missed enough proms to know that “admirable qualities” aren’t what get your foot in the door when it comes to dating. 

So after all of that, you may be wondering why, if I am so reticent about the whole “online” scene, I went along with all of this.  Good question.  I’m trying an experiment with my life lately.  I’m wondering if people aren’t brought into your life for a reason. You know, to help you grow.  No offense to the millions of online daters out there, I know it’s fun for some people, but I’ve never been very comfortable with the idea myself.  On the other hand, I’ve been single for almost four years now and there isn’t anyone in any facet of my life that I am remotely interested in romantically (or conversely, is interested in me). Nobody I even flirt with just for fun. So, if I am going to meet someone (even though I’m not completely sure I want to) maybe online is the wave of the future.  My friend certainly thought/thinks so and maybe that’s one of the reasons she’s come into my life – ‘cause I certainly wouldn’t have done it on my own.

This is where it gets bad.

So, after several weeks of lurking unobtrusively on the dating site I actually “talked” to a few prospective dates. Then after a few more weeks, I actually arranged to meet “a prospect” at a local restaurant.

I arrive at the restaurant first.

I am nervous.

I am embarrassed to be here,

I was embarrassed just getting dressed for the date.

But I am here.

I find myself wondering, while I’m waiting, about the etiquette for the online hook-up.  Does HE pay for dinner or do we each pay for our own?  And how am I going to know that going into the date?  Should I just ask right up front?

I kind of know what the prospect looks like from the fuzzy pictures on the computer, so I’m pretty sure I see him when he walks in.  He’s wearing cowboy boots.  I’m not saying that’s a deal-breaker for me, or anything, it’s just, you know, information. Because I had told the hostess my name and the name of the man I was waiting for, she directed him over to where I was sitting.  I stood up as he approached and we shook hands then sat down in the booth. 

I smile at him.  He seemed ok - nice looking –a bit older than me and pretty tall (though I’m sure the boots helped with that).  He was a little heavy-handed with the aftershave, but at least he smelled good.

He stares at me intently for a moment. Then he leans back in his seat, sighs deeply and  places both hands heavily on the edge of the table.

Then he spoke.

“You know, I’ve been doing this online dating thing for awhile now and I don’t believe in wasting anyone’s time.” He had a nice voice with a little bit of an indefinable drawl to it...but I can't help but wonder what's coming next.

“Okay.” I say cautiously.

“You seem really nice, but this…” he says kind of waving his hands to encompass the entire package that is me, “…isn’t what I’m looking for.

“Okay.” I say again.

“So, I’m going to wish you a good evening. Enjoy your dinner.” He then slides out of the booth, stands up, and out of the Red Robin he goes.

As he’s leaving he passes the approaching waitress who was coming over to take our drink order and who, of course, I happen to know from Ebay’s former ballroom team.

“Okay.” I say to her. “I guess I know who's paying for dinner.

See, I told you it was bad.

Embarrassment + Time = Comedy

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 cup here

Here's the thing - I don't get embarrassed very easily.  So when I do, it's usually something huge.  Like back when I was 18 and on the phone with a guy I liked and all of a sudden there was a strange sound in the background which he asked me about... but that's not the kind of story I would write about for all internetdom.  It's a little too personal.  Trust me on this one, you really don't want to know. *shudder*

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.

Ever.

The Rip

Pin It “Tell us about one of your most embarrassing moments.”

It was my first year as a teacher. As most beginning educators (or teachers in general in any year they’ve taught), I had a very limited budget and looked for ways in which to save money. Because of this, many of my clothes were purchased at the local thrift industry store. I’m all about saving a few dollars here and there, and purchasing an entire ensemble for school for fewer than ten dollars was always a screaming deal.

One particular day found me purchasing a pair of pants that were awesome. They were just my size, and though a little worn in the seams, were a great deal for only four dollars. After all there were no stains, the legcuffs weren’t frayed at all, and the pockets didn’t have holes in them. I made my purchase and left the store. Over the next few weeks I wore my new acquisition, and I was relishing in the fact that I’d purchased them for such a great price.

I’m all about screaming deals.

One day, I was working the after-school program and had a group of students outside. I was explaining the rules to the game we’d be playing, and as I squatted down, I felt—as well as heard—the unmistakable sound; funny how you can ‘feel’ a sound isn’t it? I’m sure you know the sound I speak of when I add that the world got an awful lot breezier, too.

I quickly stood and talked even faster so that my students wouldn’t be aware of what had just happened (luckily, they had all been in front of me and none behind). I put my hands behind my back and could feel the rip—completely up the seam all along the backside.

My face reddened slightly as I wondered just how I could get out of this. I was out on the field with two dozen students left to my charge; there was no ready-made solution—I’d have to make it back to the building, unnoticed, and then go home to change.

Now the challenge was finding the way to get there without my rip—a gaping one at that—being observed.

I got the game going as quickly as I could, I put two responsible students in charge and then began backing the entire distance to the school building; I smiled, offered up encouragement, and pretended that everything was okay to the crowd of boys and girls who were playing. Occasionally I had to turn to one side or the other when another group’s student was in close proximity so as not to give them a show. In reality, I must have looked like a dancer twirling this direction and that before covering the distance to the building.

I had never noticed what a long walk it was from the field before…

I reached the building, walking sideways and making sure my backside was to the wall as I passed both teachers and students in the hallway. I breathed out a sign of relief as I reached my classroom sanctuary and began to look for something to cover the tear…there was nothing.

I finally opted for the only thing I could readily find: a girl’s jacket that had been hanging on one of the classroom racks for as long as I could remember. I tied it about my waist and headed to the hallway. In reality, it was pretty hot out and with a girl’s jacket I looked completely ridiculous, raising more than one pair of eyebrows as I walked down the hall.

Undaunted, I made my way to the program coordinator’s office and told her that an emergency had arisen and I’d need to go home.

She asked what was up.

I told her it was personal.

She asked why I had a girl’s jacket tied around my waist.

I had no choice but to explain what had happened.

My boss’ face showed concern. She told me that I was more than welcome to go home to change. She nodded appreciatively and didn’t say anything as I backed toward the door. Then her face split into a huge smile as she broke into uncontrollable laughter.

I guess it’s a good thing that I had a sense of humor, because instead of being even more embarrassed I laughed, too.

Since the horrendous day of the I-got-a-huge-rip-right-in-the-seat-of-the-you-know-where I decided to limit my purchases at said thrift store. After all, some deals just aren’t worth the possible costs of embarrassment in days of future passed.

However, the story I got in the end was totally worth it.

Let’s hear it for screaming deals.

Udder Humiliation

Pin It When I read the topic for today's post, my immediate thought was jeez...my entire life is a series of embarrassing moments. There was the time my mother conducted some heavy-handed flirting with the cute security guard at the White House, while I, a super-sensitive thirteen, stood by and cringed. There was the time I tripped and fell into the guy in front of me as we were walking in the Dell at Lynchburg College...which wouldn't, actually, have been a big deal--except it was during our graduation procession, and is now on film for all posterity.

Another time, I "won" a spelling bee...but not really--they just thought I had because my southern accent was too thick to distinguish between a's and o's. I genuinely thought I had spelled warlock correctly, and told the newspaper so. "Miss Wray, can you tell us how you spelled warlock?" "Oh, sure! I spelled it w-o-r-l-o-c-k!" You can just imagine how that was reported.

There was the time I decided I could ride bikes with the big boys, and sailed on down the hill at Westbrook Circle. I was doing great, pink streamers singing out from my handlebars, braids flying out behind me. I was Winning. And then the curb at the foot of the hill rose up in front of me, a monolith to instant destruction I hadn't prepared for. I had no brakes. I swung sharply to the side, and somehow careened over the curb sideways and upside down...it was amazing. And humiliating. I cried.

And oh--there was this one time, on the schoolbus. There was that boy in the fifth grade on whom I had a crush...he broke my little fourth grade heart. I stared at him in awe when he turned around in his seat to look at me, his perfectly coiffed blonde locks with their feathered formation a sharp contrast to my uneven bowl cut, his piercing baby blue eyes locked quizzically on mine. It was a moment. Eternity in a second. It was meant to be. I'd been dreaming of this forever. Jeremy, my heart sang. He was almost...my...boyfriend...he's going to ask to me to marry him... And then I did it. I stuck out my tongue at him. I have no idea, to this day, why I did it. Nervousness, I suppose, blended with a healthy dose of stupidity. Jeremy's quizzicism turned to scorn, and he turned back around in his seat without a word.

There is no real competition for my most embarrassing moment, though. So much so, in fact, that I contemplated ignoring it. After all, if I don't tell you, you'll never know.

But that would be cheating.

So here it is. The ultimate baring of my soul.

After I gave birth to Autumn at 23 years-old, I was still in incredible physical shape. (Not to be confused with now.) I lost all my baby weight within a few weeks (please don't hate me...I'm paying for it now, I promise), and was itching to get back out on the volleyball court. I was serving as assistant coach at the time of the JV high school team, and we had a scrimmage scheduled for adults versus girls, so I decided I would get out there and play in that game.

It was awesome. It was so nice to be out there serving, hitting, passing, and even doing a little diving--when strictly necessary, of course. The game concluded, and we began putting the equipment away. I was chatting with Nick, the Latin teacher whose classroom was next door to mine,when I noticed a look of consternation on his face.

"What is it?"

He pointed, and then doubled over, hands on his knees. "Aaaaaaah....sorry...can't help it. I'm pretty sure those are your what-a-ya-callits."

Those "what-a-ya-callits" were my nursing pads, which were scattered across the floor a short distance away. "Holy mammary glands!" I exploded, and swiftly grabbed them up. I guess they had fallen out while I was busy bouncing to and fro across the court, blithely unaware of the devastation to my mama's wardrobe. I forced myself--and Nick--to finish our conversation, until the restrained laughter did us both in, and we parted ways.

How. Udderly. Embarrassing.