At what point in my life am I going to stop embarrassing myself?
As a child, there’s always an excuse for making an utter mockery of oneself. Puked during class? Farted in front of a girl you like? Ah, you’re just a kid, don’t worry about it. Biffed your piano recital? Pretended you had polio and that you’d been paralyzed from the waist down only to have your mother find out the truth three years later? Forget about it, you little rascal. Now get back down in the basement and don’t come back until sunup!
As an adult, however, those moments tend to stick a bit deeper into our psyche. Little things, like getting a performance review while there’s a huge rip in the crotch of your pants come to mind. Yikes. That was a meatgrinder of a morning.
Things haven’t really gotten much better since then, either. Just yesterday, while discussing the pyramids and religious rites of the Mayans, my bladder emptied itself into my pants. Fortunately, I was able to smooth over the situation by reassuring those present that I hadn’t actually pissed myself. I told them that I was stricken with a rare malady that occasionally causes about a pint of sweat to pour forth from my crotchal region. When this didn’t seem to quite satisfy their curiosity, I told them that I also have AIDS. Then they felt sorry for me.
I suppose, given my volatile disposition and preponderance toward gin, I may never stop embarrassing myself. This doesn’t give me much pause. As long as I have this blog to cauterize those wounds into whimsical tales of merriment, and my trusty pretend-to-have-a-fatal-illness ploy to fall back on, I should be just fine.