So there he was looking into my eyes asking that question again. The one he always does. I succumb because I love him and the answer always makes him laugh.
“What’s your most embarrassing moment?”
My mind takes that walk, or rather stumble, of shame through those humiliating moments that should rather be kept firmly in the manila envelopes of my mind. But I think it’s important for him to know that I too have failed, spectacularly.
The most horribly, shameful moment? I scan through the list.
Could it be the time, at the tender age of seven that I farted loudly during a pirouette in ballet class, cruelly ending a promising dancing career? The pianist stopped playing, all the mothers’ eyes turned aghast to me and the room became so silent… In all my years of meditating I have never quite captured that Zen like stillness.
No! Not that. Could it be the time I was pissed off because my older and more developed sister was taken bra shopping? She came back with the most amazing lacy numbers that had orange doves sewed between the breasts and showed off the whole day. How I stole one of her beloved bras the next day, filled it with lumpy socks and went to school. A minor miracle considering that at age eight I had gone from a quadruple A to a C cup, much to the amusement of the boys.
Nah! What about the time (same year) I decided to cut my own fringe when mom was off on a cake icing course? My hair dressing techniques were a bit off, so each cut was skew. Late into the night, and sleepy eyed, I wafted off to bed. The next morning, to my horror, I saw bristles sticking out at the top of my forehead. Yeegads! After the bra incident I just had to do something to hide this debacle. So I wore my brother’s balaclava to school in the middle of summer, sweaty little eyes and perspiring little nose sticking out through the woolly hole. I explained to everyone that I had this weird, exotic head cold that called for knitted hats in summer.
Nader, it actually gets worse than this, if you’d believe it. Besides I lay the blame for all of the above on my parent’s nasty divorce.
Ah yes. My first job and the time I rushed to catch the bus to work. That wintry morning when I hurried out the bathroom, onto the bus, past all the pensioners and the bus driver. The old biddies said things to me, which I arrogantly mistook to mean: “You’re simply looking splendid dear!” I waved them off with my hand saying, “Thank you, thank you,” then sat to read a book on the ride in. The bus driver kept eyeing me. “How could he resist my ravishing form?” I thought. As I slipped off the bus the driver’s eyes engorged. Only then did I slide my hand over my butt to realise that the back of my skirt had bunched into my underwear. I had been flashing my bum to the world. Lovely!
No, no, no. The all time face-flashing, earth-swallowing, cringe inducing moment must be the JJ night. As a virginal university waif I shyly avoided boys, but had the hots for JJ. Most of the guys I liked were funny literary types, but JJ was sheer eye candy. The male version of Pamela Anderson, if you will. All blonde, blue-eyed, ripped and tanned. Imagine my delight when after months of lusting he asked me out to a beer festival. My gay friend Craig and I were beside ourselves. I primped and preened, applied mascara, put on sexy underwear and did all the things I needed to do so I would be uber-desirable. What I thought the male equivalent of a 'Pammy A' would go for. Involved some, yeeow! tweezing and other delicate things, but I digress.
JJ wasn’t all that chatty, and I was still virginal and shy, so yes you can imagine the ‘conversation’. I did want to make a memorable impression though, so I clapped loudly when he decided to enter the men’s beer drinking competition. What a boytjie! He downed that yard-arm in just one gulp. Then came the women’s beer drinking competition and JJ said I should give it a twirl. Too eager to please I jumped up and tried to emulate his macho behaviour. What do you know? That yard arm went all the way down. JJ leapt up to congratulate me and the world started to turn.
The thing about being in an all-girls’ school is that apart from no sex, there’s also no booze. As I was scoring the first contact with JJ of the evening, what went down came up all over him in front of all his friends. Gay friend Craig grabbed me and rushed me into the girl’s loo where he lovingly padded warm beer off me with toilet paper. I cried and he clucked and said that he was sure JJ would forget all about it in the morning.
Damn liar, Craig was - JJ, never asked me out again.
So back up the shame walkway into the present moment where I end my story, look at my son and say: “There are worse things than farting in front of all the girls in class. Believe me.” He’s just cracking up with laughter and then turns to me with a huge grin. He looks at me adoringly and says: “Know what mom. I just love you. I really, really love you.”
Is there anything more beautiful than mornings? The soft, gentle way it evaporates darkness. Chases away sleep. Invites birds to sing. Creates hope and opportunity.
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