Mortification Emancipation

“Mom, please just drop me off here.  I can walk the rest of the way.  Please????”

                I was somewhere in the vicinity of 12 years old.  Clearly on the verge of knowing everything and getting dropped off for my first (maybe second, or even third, kind of a moot point) middle school dance.  On that fateful night there could’ve been a blizzard with torrential rains and a half mile of mud pits and I still would’ve asked to not be dropped at the door, all because of my fear of getting a little red in the face.  (Plus, let’s be honest.  It’s middle school.  Everyone else got there in their parent’s car.  What did I think I was doing by not?  That I was beamed down?)  Looking back it seems, well, stupid.  When immersed in the all consuming life of being a preteen parents are most assuredly the most embarrassing people/things ever.  And I mean E.V.E.R.  The fact that I was NOT the 1 out of 67 girls that got her boobs in before high school, or that makeup was akin to understanding hieroglyphics, or even that in the 90’s we thought that yellow pants were a great idea; no none of that held a candle to parents. 

               

                “Have a great day at school Alex.  Make sure you pay attention, be polite and only who has the power to embarrass you?”

                “Myself.”

                “Oh and don’t get caught picking your nose, because that really will be embarrassing.”

                This is my mantra, “Only I have the power to feel embarrassed.”  I repeat it to my son so as to help him through life.  Mostly because while I thought my mother was embarrassing, I really am embarrassing.  So my son really got the short end of that stick.  Poor guy. 

                A few weeks ago I was out enjoying a night of good people and fun times when I found myself walking across a dark parking lot in sixty degree weather with a fine gentleman (maybe ‘gentleman’ is a strong word, but a fella none the less.  One that I don’t not like.).  As we strolled along to our respective cars we chuckled and conversed until suddenly I felt my left foot go completely airborne.  As if in a slow motion movie scene I tried to overcorrect and my right foot joined the left in a little reenactment of the Wright Bros first flight.  Next thing I know I’m hands and knees on the ground with no excuse as to how I ended up in such a position except that maybe gravity was playing a little joke on me, or that I was merely trying to figure out the EXACT make up of asphalt by getting a closer look.  So I did the only thing I could think of to rectify (I love the word ‘rectify’) the situation; I jumped up and looked right into his confused face and said, “Well, that was fun.”  And proceeded to laugh, a lot, and with vigor.  I wish I could say that I dropped it like it was hot (I think that’s what the kids do), but I’m pretty sure I just dropped it.  The walk finale was rather uneventful, which was nice.  I must say that if I had spent the rest of the stroll being immersed in mortification I would’ve missed the rather confused one sided conversation that went something like,

“I was just walking along talking to you and all of the sudden you were just gone!  I looked around and the area seemed to be free of hazards; I’m not entirely certain how you did that.  There weren’t any cracks, no bumps, not even a little puddle.  Its sixty degrees….. so ice is out.  Hmmm.”

                Over the years I’ve come to embrace my red-in-the-faceness instead of trying so hard in my youth to avoid it.  I drop things (like my whole body), I fall down, I say things that involve vast amounts of back pedaling, and I’m not always the most fashionable person in the room, but I find that laughing about instead of lamenting if others are laughing at, it is a much more enjoyable way to live.  Plus I think of all the things I’d miss out on if I let the fear of embarrassment hold me back.  So I don’t.