Last night at dinner, the conversation started with visits to the eye doctor, and moved to embarrassing moments. I shared an embarrassing moment at the eye doctor. Basically, I have an embarrassing moment for most any social occasion. After dinner, by informal vote, it was decided that I had raised social awkwardness and personal embarrassment to a height unattainable by anyone else in the family. "He who wishes" said I should write a book. I thought, perhaps a blog first. I will not bore you with all my moments, just some of the top ten.
Of course, I guess I should begin with the eye doctor story since that is what started the whole discussion. Once I had a vision test at the opthamologist's office where I looked into a machine sort of like a child's view finder. There was a lovely pastoral scene with a cornfield, green tractor and red barn. If I looked at it with both eyes, there were some items that did not belong in the scene, and I found them aesthetically displeasing. So, I shut my left eye and responded to the nurse's inquiries as to what was in the picture. When the test was over with great dismay she exclaimed that I had gone completely blind in my left eye. Embarrassing!!
There was the family wedding that we attended. I can usually count on "he who wishes" to maintain a high level of decorum. He has much more self-control than I, so he is the rock upon which I depend to keep me in line. He failed me at this wedding. I won't go into the many details that caused our laughter, but we were both overwhelmed with the giggles. In an effort to settle myself down in such circumstances, I find that a subtle cough helps me get things under control. Not so this evening. My cough burst forth sounding much like the honk of the lead goose in a flock of geese headed South for the winter. It was so bad, that our young teen children got up and went to sit with more refined family members. Driving to the reception, I convinced myself that the honking cough was not as obnoxious as my family was making it out to be. I was disabused of this falsehood, however, when, at the reception, the video was played back, and there was the honk, forever on video, for all to hear. My mortification was complete.
And, then there was the family funeral. Once again, "he who wishes" found himself unable to tap into his usual stoicism. The laughter began (I am not proud) when I saw a cousin who had come to the funeral in tuxedo pants, patent leather shoes (purchased at Bittner's annual sale), a sport coat, and I think, polo shirt. I'm sorry, but it was prime for What Not to Wear. So, I got to giggling. When the prayer began, "dear God, we are at our wit's end," somehow looking at my cousin's attire, and knowing the wits of many of the family members present, the giggles increased. "He who wishes" and I often think too much alike and he too began to laugh. I ran out of the room, face in hands, as people sympathetically expressed their concern for my sorrow. I went to the ladies' room and, yes, I hee hawed...almost hysterically. Unbeknownst to me at that moment, hysteria would follow later. While I hee hawed in the ladies' room, "he who wishes" was guffawing in the men's room. Eventually, after a couple more trips to the specified gender rooms, we were able to return to the funeral.
The minister, apparently, was not acquainted with the deceased for he never mentioned his name, and during the service he railed against abortion and the United States Supreme Court. "He who wishes" leaned over to me and commented that my uncle had either been a member of the Supreme Court or had had an abortion. Enter, once again, serious giggling. We suffered through the "memorial" only to be met with the song "On the Street Where You Live" played as the casket was wheeled from the chapel. I am not making this up. We still have not reached the point of hysteria. I did get tickled when my father got into the car we were driving to the cemetery, and in his dry, witty, way said, "now that's who I want to do my funeral."
So, we go to the cemetery where the graveside service consisted of the minister (still not having spoken the name of the deceased) going on a loud diatribe against "the church" for creating Pergatory just to make money. My cousin, the deceased's daughter, at the gravesite, came to the minister and said, "you are crazy as hell if you think I am going to pay you," followed by disparaging remarks concerning his mother's dispositon. Okay, now let the hysteria begin.
I am not known for my athletic prowess. I was known as the "easy out" at church softball games, the "belly buster" at the pool, and the one who hit the tennis balls over the fence. Basketball proved to be my most serious undoing, however. In junior high everyone who was not on a sports team was required to play an intramural sport. As if junior high is not humiliating enough. One team had to wear red pennies...you know, little vest-like things that slip over your head...to distinguish them from the other team since all of us were in PE uniforms. Talk about What Not to Wear. Needless to say, there was no coach recruiting me for his/her team so in 7th grade, I played intramural basketball. Of course, my team was the one who had to wear the pennies. Mainly, I sat on the bench, gratefully. But, the moment came when I was called into the game. I had about a nanosecond to take a penny from a teammate and put it on. Much to my chagrin and the frustration of my coach, I found myself standing in the middle of the court with my head and arm through the same hole of the penny. My arm was wedged next to my right ear and my eyes were covered with the penny since the head hole was not large enough for my head and my shoulder. I was not much help to my team in this condition, but the fans certainly were entertained. A prime candidate for the the Litton Intramural Basketball Hall of Shame.
And, the piece de resistance of personal embarrassment. When my son graduated from high school, we went on a 3 week trip out West. My daughter loved to horseback ride, had even taken some classes. Our chance came at Yellowstone National Park. We went to the barn and the wrangler picked out the horses we were to ride. There were several other equestrians in our group. This was going to be fun. The wrangler helped me up on my horse, and I immediately grabbed the reigns holding on for dear life. My horse began to back up. The wrangler yelled release, release. I thought (seriously, I'm not kidding) my horse's name was Release. Why in the world would Release not stop backing up. He is pushing other riders out of the paddock. Then, very loudly, the wrangler yelled, "ma'am release the reigns!!" Oh, Release was not my horse's name, it was the instruction directed at me. One might think that this would be the height of embarrassment for a trail ride, but, no.
The trail ride was rather pleasant. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Some of the participants were definitely steering clear of me, but Release and I were understanding each other quite well. After an hour or so, it was time to return to the barn and bid our horses and wranglers a fond farewell. My dismount was somewhat less than graceful. Popular at that time were long sweatshirts that came about to one's knees. Speaking of What Not to Wear. As I dismounted, my sweatshirt got caught on the saddle horn. My weight caught in the sweatshirt caught on the saddle horn caused the saddle to slip sideways on Release's belly. I am a rather short person, and could not reach the ground. As I dangled from the saddle horn, laughing uncontrollably, watching my family backing away quickly (they wanted to watch the train wreck, but they didn't want anyone to know they were with the train wreck), I couldn't figure out who was more embarrassed, the horse or me. Was it my imagination that poor Release shuffled back to his stall with his head hanging low?
So for today, I wish you social dignity, poise, grace, and
blessings
No comments:
Post a Comment