Why So Serious?
I am bored. I am so bored right now, that I’m thinking about climbing over the railing of the loft area here in the coffee shop and balancing on one of the beams that crosses the loungy room below, just to see what happens.
I felt the need to leave the house because Justin is working nights this week, which means I’m supposed to somehow find it within myself to remain eerily quiet while he sleeps throughout the day, which – let’s face it – doesn’t come naturally to someone like me.
Yep, I’m one of those people.
I’m one of those people who doesn’t generally get invited to formal events or fancy work dinner parties because I believe using things like “inside voices” and “refinement” and “muted chuckles” as opposed to boisterous enthusiasm and inappropriate comments and uncontrollable laughter is for
pussies fictional characters.
Unless you’re at a funeral, or something.
But if it were my funeral, I hope you’d laugh. Most likely because I would’ve died trying to walk the second-story balance beam at my local coffee shop.
Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing?
But you know, the older I get, I’m realizing that the idea of “embarrassment” is really only a state of mind. And I can say that because I’ve done plenty of embarrassing things. Like this. And this. Oh yeah, and this.
And I’m really not afraid to share those stories, because, you know, they happened. And I can choose to curl myself up into a little ball or worry and regret and wait for people to stop looking at me, or I can just say, So? What are you gonna do about it? And I hope the answer is laugh, or at least learn, because otherwise I just completely wasted a really good embarrassing story on you and your dry sense of humor.
I will admit that I’m not completely immune, however. There are some events that have been so ridiculously mortifying that my mind has done everything in its power to repress memories that would serve no purpose but to form an imprengable mental wall of blushing shame. Events that, when someone unexpectedly brings them up, I can actually feel my throat dry out and heart stop beating – but it only stops for a second, because the relief of dying in the moment of reliving that embarrassment would be only too kind.
My friend and former college roommate Marissa was nice enough to remind me of one of those moments the other day when, as an introduction to her response to this game of internet tag, decided to say this in reference to me:
This is the woman who borrowed my metal pot to make popcorn in and put in the microwave thereby setting the alarm off and directing the wrath of our dormmates and fire brigade at me.
Okay. Whoah. First of all, Marissa – low blow.
Second, I was making Ramen noodles – not popcorn.
Third, I’m pretty sure the wrath (which wasn’t really wrath, but mild irritation, disbelief, and intense laughter) was most definitely directed at me, not you.
But no, I’m not really mad. Everything else Marisa said was completely complimentary. And you know, sometimes it’s good to be reminded of these things. Humbling, even.
In my defense, I have been nothing but honest in saying that I didn’t start learning to cook until around 2006 – well after the metal-in-the-microwave incident. The incident that, much to my horror, forced all of our dorm mates (thank god there were only like 23 rooms in our dorm) to pile out onto the grassy lawn in their pajamas because I had a hankering for some thirty-nine cent beef-flavored goodness.
What can I say? I thought that the pot (the cooking pot, not the other kind – though wouldn’t it be nice if I could blame that?) was a shortcut. A means to and end of my hunger.
Turns out it was a means to meeting one of the hotest guys on the campus fire department.
I only wish the circumstances had been a little better. Like… you know… I hadn’t just almost burned down the dorm.
But, like any other embarrassing moment, there’s a lesson to be learned:
Kids, don’t put metal in the microwave. And, if you do, make sure you at least look cute when the firemen show up.
So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways
All my underdogs
We will never be never be
Anything but loud, and nitty gritty
Dirty little freaks!
Do you have an embarrassing story to share? Let it out! It can be therapeutic.