As teenagers, it’s expected that we assume our parents are the foundation of our embarrassment. However, we all know deep down that we really don’t need any assistance in that area of our lives. For me, embarrassment comes as a second nature.
A time I happened to stumble upon embarrassment was during my second grade year at Harp Elementary where I was finally discovering the magic of manipulation and lying. Most of my “popular” friends had glasses and me, blessed with perfect eyesight, wanted them more than I wanted a puppy.
Our monthly eyesight checkup in the nurse’s room was the perfect time to get my excuse. So while I was reading the letters off the wall out loud, the H’s, F’s and E’s started to look a lot like B’s, C’s and Z’s. To my liking, I now needed glasses.
Mom however, working at my school, knew the truth and would not let me get any, so I took the matter into my own hands. I snuck in my parents’ room and “borrowed” my dad’s ancient glasses from the forties. The next day, I brought them to school and the glasses were more of a burden than a helping hand. I looked like a confused second grader and indeed I was(not only because I couldn’t see).
Our class had taken a trip to music class after lunch and this is where my 50 pound body sat on those lovely glasses. When the music teacher saw the broken glass, she sent me down to my mom to tell her that I needed a new pair. However, I was really going to plainly tell her I had glasses, and they weren’t even mine. The walk down the hall of shame took minutes that seemed like two life times. My mom, trying to keep a straight face, scolded me which meant I was soon standing in my own tears.
Another time I stumbled upon embarrassment happened to be at “The Nutcracker” ballet. When I was 9 years old, my mom had surprised me with tickets to go see the ballet, and for a girl who spent most afternoons with her chickens, this was a big deal. When I was getting dressed, I realized that I hadn’t collected the eggs from the chicken coops yet. I threw on my coat and braced the winter weather until I reached the warmth of the heat lamps. I quickly put two eggs in each pocket and ran to the car so we wouldn’t be late.
When my dad dropped off my mom and I, we hurried inside and immediately scanned the snack bar and trinket booths. Because we left my house so rapidly, when we passed the restroom, we were reminded of our need to use it that the ballet’s excitement made us forget. However, that wasn’t the only forgotten thing that night. As I entered the restroom, I looked in the mirror, fixed my hair (which wasn’t much of an improvement being as though I was nine), stuck my hands in my pockets and a disgusted look appeared on my face. I had just placed them in what once had been my make-do egg baskets holding eggs that I forgot to take inside. I pulled out my hands, now covered in yellow goo, and quickly stuck them back in to avoid awkward stares.
Motioning to my mom to join me in one of the stalls, I tried to figure out which emotion I was going to let loose. Her method of attempting to flush the vast amount of eggshells and yolk down the toilet did not succeed. Instead of cooperating, the shells came back up along with the water. Slowly rising to the surface, along with my blood pressure, my mom and I exchanged glances before I made her reach in and pull them out. Believe it or not, the hardest part out of all of this was walking out of the stall as if nothing had happened.
Even though I would love to blame both these times of embarrassment on my parents, clearly I was fully capable of making myself look like an idiot all on my own.
