It’s hard to be a boob

I am not the most graceful person I’ve ever met, and I’m OK with that. I never have been, nor will I ever be, light on my feet.

In high school, I even recall the guy that I had this horrific lust crush on telling me that he always recognized me by my walk. Would it have been awesome if it had been because I sashayed when I walked? After all, I had a healthy butt back then (but was pretty skinny), and the thought that he was checking out my ass made me happy. Unfortunately, he followed up with this line,

“Yeah, because you walk like a lumberjack.”

Oi. So much for checking out my ass.

But not untrue, so I didn’t really take it personally. I do believe that was the year that I proposed that the lumberjack song from Monty Python be the new national anthem. I know how I am.

I am the queen of weird, accidental blunders. If every time I made a fool of myself I cried, I’d have to buy stock in kleenex.

So, I will share at least one, and maybe more, of my most embarrassing moments. Because you’re lucky, I will share my favorite one first.

This is back in college, and I had just started my graduate special work for speech pathology. It was hot, and I was on the shuttle bus. I looked cute, too–long billowy skirt, cute boots underneath, and I looked good. I was happy for it, because although I had recently gotten married, I was on the shuttle with nearly the entire football team (they had gotten on at the previous stop). Hey, I might have been married, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want the cute football players checking me out.

And things were going along swimmingly. I mean, how much trouble can a girl get into just sitting on a shuttle?

The answer to that is: not a lot. It’s the getting up that can be the problem.

I should, perhaps, expound a little on what I was wearing. My long, flowing skirt had an elastic waistband.

So when I stood up, I accidentally stood on my skirt. And as I stood up, the skirt fell down.

Before I even had the opportunity to process what was happening, said skirt hit the floor. And all I could do was stare at it in horror.

I looked down at my skirt, lying in a puddle on the floor. I looked up. And watched as every head on the shuttle turned to look out the window–they were tactful enough to pretend that I wasn’t standing on a crowded shuttle in my cute silk shirt, cute boots, and my underwear. It was like watching the crowd do the wave at a football game. The folks closest to me turned their heads first, then the people in front of them, and so on, up until the people at the front of the shuttle–mostly men–were all pointedly staring out the window.

I bent down and picked up my skirt. Wrestled a little with my boot, which was tangled in said skirt, then pulled the thing back on, and pretended that my cheeks weren’t flaming. Holding my head high, I marched to the front of the deathly silent shuttle and got off.

I was the only one to get off at that stop.

As I started walking to class, I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard my sides ached, until I was nearly crying. And as I paused to catch my breath, I heard that I wasn’t the only one laughing.

The peeps on the shuttle–the football team–were howling with laughter as they drove away. I could still hear them laughing at the next shuttle stop. It should have embarrassed me to high heaven, but it didn’t, because even I had to admit it was funny. In fact, I went directly inside the building, sat down in class, and told the first girl who would listen to me my little story, and I laughed through the entire telling–even though my cheeks were still flaming

She and I are still friends.

The moral of this story is:

1) Never wear junky underwear, and 

2) Don’t take yourself too seriously.

Because, honey, if I did, I would in serious trouble.



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