I don’t feel those often.
Not because I don’t do stupid things. I do. A lot. I just don’t care what others think, a survival mechanism learned at a young age.
Many activities considered embarrassing, I love.
Dancing alone just because a song with a catchy beat filled the room? No problem.
Asking a question most would assume is “stupid” because I honestly want to know? Sure.
Stripping naked in a locker room? Giving birth killed my modesty.
My child(ren) melting down in public while other kids are the epitome of good behavior? It was roll with the chaos or become a hermit.
A few things have slipped by, catching me off guard, my cheeks heating with the flames of mortification.
Funny how they deal with urine or coughing….
The basement of JJ’s house. Her birthday slumber party.
At least six of us curled in beds and sleeping bags, finally crashing off the sugar high, sick of Truth or Dare.
I woke up to silence. Everyone asleep. My bladder bursting with soda pop.
I stumbled around, trying to remember where the basement bathroom was located.
At last I found it, and sat, relaxing my muscles in blessed relief.
Something warm trickled down my leg.
Confused, I opened my eyes, darkness all around. Instead of the bathroom, I found myself halfway up the downstairs steps of JJ’s split level. Urine pooled at my bare feet, my underwear and nightshirt drenched.
I did the only thing a nine year old could in this situation.
I bawled as quietly as possible.
Indecision flared – I had no idea what to do.
So I cried some more, until shivering took over in the damp chill.
I had to wake up the birthday girl, so she could get her mom.
It still holds the number spot of most embarrassing moment, and the only time I ever went sleepwalking.
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A Secret the Baby Books Don’t Tell You
February 20, 2007
My husband cradled our newborn son in his arms, as I trudged upstairs. My feet swelled, my stitches ached, and my body thought it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle hurt even dosed on hydrocodon. I lacked the sensation to pee along with the shut off valve – the consequence of pushing my 8 lb 11 oz baby for over ninety minutes.
My cats swarmed, meowing their demands, scolding me for allowing my husband feed them. I scooped some food and crouched to dump it into the bowl.
My bladder, beaten and bruised from punching bag duty and labor, took this as signal for release.
Once it began, I couldn’t stop it until every last drop drained.
I stared at the wet stain growing over the khaki pants.
And I laughed. The hysterical, over exhausted, “what the hell is next?” kind.
Very thankful it hadn’t been in public.
* * *
The explosion sound effect echoed and I waited for my cue.
The soldiers burst through the door, turning their weapons on me and other refugees.
I fell, catching myself on my forearms as I rolled to my side.
I slowed my breath, trying not to move.
The lights dimmed, a bloody sheet draped over me.
The lights returned as the scene continued, discussing those lucky enough to escape.
Fumes tickled my throat, still strong from the paint or dye used to stain the cloth.
I sensed it building, deep within. I struggled to squash it, hold it caged.
It grew, until I failed and it burst forth, not once, but in rapid succession.
The audience twittered at the absurdity of the coughing corpse.
The only time I ever broke character onstage.
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Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life.
Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself?
Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now?
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