Dilemma

When I told HT about this week's blog topic, he laughed heartily. "Embarrassing moments-- you've got PLENTY of those,"he proclaimed.

The sad thing is, he's completely correct. But the problem is, as hilarious as some of the stories are, and as much as I am able to laugh about most of them now, there's a difference between being able to laugh at yourself, and being willing to put it out for the whole blogosphere to read. Especially when MomTuesday is a frequent visitor. . .

Thus began this week's dilemma--entertain our faithful readers with tales of misplaced undergarments or drunken declarations, or rifle through the mental vault in search of a more PG incident. As fun as it would be to air my dirty laundry, I've opted for the later option. And what better way to discuss embarrassment than to talk about two of the most embarrassing moments of my early childhood.

The first occurred when I was in third grade. As an elementary school student, I perhaps more self-aware than the average child. So much so that the SLIGHTEST of embarrassment tended to make me blush a bright red. Imagine, if you will, then how red my face got the day that I walked a bit too close to my teacher as she uncrossed her legs in front of the class and accidentally caught my skirt in the sweeping motion. For a brief moment, my bright blue Hanes-Her-Way was visible to the row of nine year old boys sitting in the front of the classroom. Mortified, my eyes welled with tears as the teacher, feeling terrible about the mishap, reassured me that they couldn't possibly have seen anything in the split second. The boys, however, were quick to pipe up that they had, in fact seen my undergarments, and they were blue. "Tell them they were pink," my teacher whispered; but with a wail of honesty I proclaimed, "BUT THEY WERE BLUE!!!!!" And proceeded to storm out of the room.


The second occurred four years later in the seventh grade, when my mom was serving as a chapperone on our class fieldtrip to Philadelphia. Having grown up in a township with a lone traffic light, I wasn't a particularly astute city traveler. Never was this more clear than the moment I stepped down off the curb and straight into the path of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. Yes, that's right, the big hot-dog-shapped motor-vehicle you've seen on those insipid commercials was barrelling towards me. My mom reached out her hand with the speed only a mother is capable of, grabbed me by the collar, and pulled me out of it's way. But the handful of guys who were in our small group were still bringing up the hilarity of that brief instant long after we'd graduated high school. To have met my death by driving weiner, they proclaimed, would have been a fantastic way to go. Luckily, I'm around today to tell the story. Thanks MomTuesday.

As to the 1,000 or so other embarrassing stories that have ellapsed between 12 and 28, they'll have to wait for another day. . . it's not that I can't laugh about them, it's just that I'm not ready for you to laugh, too :)