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Posts Tagged ‘embarrassment’

But life is full of surprises.

Yesterday, my closet revolted. Maybe it was angry from all the recent purging. Maybe it was offended by my fashion sense. It’s hard to tell.

I had opted for a black pencil skirt that morning. Classic choice, right? I pulled it on, fastened the hook and eye without issue, and proceeded to zip up.

But the zipper went on strike about three inches shy of the top of the skirt.

At first, I was optimistic. I’d hit snags before. I zipped down and up, trying to catch the snag unawares and break on through.

Then the nasty little thing threw me a curve ball. All of a sudden, the zipper wasn’t moving anywhere. It was camped out in no man’s land (where it remains today), still at that same three-inches-shy mark.

And so I was stuck. With very minimal wiggle room. And, naturally, I was running late. Because these sorts of things never happen when you have loads of time on your hands.

I made one last ditch effort to yank the zipper up and down, hoping to get at least another inch of space so that I could pull the skirt off. And the zipper responded by attacking me.

Talk about not fighting fair.

The way I figured, I had a few options:

  1. Safety pin the top three inches and go about my day.
  2. Wake up BNF and ask for his help in ripping the zipper down.
  3. Take the skirt off over my head.

Now you can see where the post title comes from.

I had tried sliding the skirt off the same way I put it on. But the combination of it being zipped most of the way up and my ample butt made that impossible. So over the head seemed the best course of action. Except for that little obstacle known as boobs.

I don’t want to admit how long it took me to get out of that skirt. Suffice it to say that it was a lot longer than it took to get in it. There was a lot of wriggling, a lot of grunting, probably a pulled muscle or two, and way more cursing than I’m usually prone to before 8am.

In the end? I really think the skirt won.

The zipper is still holding strong in no man’s land; it left my finger with a boo-boo; and the only “wounds” it has are some little white streaks.

I really hope it doesn’t inspire the rest of my closet.

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In 24 hours I’ll be en route to wedding number three of this season in the lovely Minnesota.

(Quick side note: I thought that three was a lot, particularly in the span of a couple months, but I’ve learned that I’ll have 5-6 next year, from January to June. Yowza.)

But, unlike the previous two, this is a family wedding. My nephew is getting married. And yes, that feels weird to type – even though he’s only a few years younger than I am.

We’ll be visiting a part of the family that I haven’t seen in years. And I love them, I really, truly do, but I know that I’m going to need all my energy to keep up. This is the always-on, go-get-’em, sleep-what’s-that?, chatty, don’tcha-know part of the family. My dad’s kids from his first marriage and their subsequent families. And the last time I remember hanging out with ALL of them – all the nieces and nephews (4) – we all looked like this:

I’m the oldest here, holding “baby” Kyle – now 14. My brother’s directly behind me, with the long hair that was so popular at the time. And next to him, the nephew that’s older than he is, that’s the one getting married. As for the two girls in the photo, the one on the right just graduated high school, and the one on the left just recently turned 21.

(I bet she’ll be a blast at the wedding.)

But all of this? It makes me feel old. Much older than turning 25 did.

And you know what would make me feel even older? If I couldn’t keep up with my energetic, party animal 40+-year-old siblings and their spouses this weekend – which is, unfortunately, a distinct possibility.

It would really just be embarrassing.

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Well, you asked for it.

Or, at least, some of you did.

I don’t have the video of me shoving gently removing my brother from my path, but I do have one of my first childhood performances – thanks to Mama.

(She recorded it from the TV with her camera, hence the quality, but thanks, Mama! Yes, I’m sure there’s a better way to do this, but I don’t know it.)

Anyway – that’s me, three years old at the church advent party, singing The Friendly Beasts, and not a trace of stage fright.

And notice how there’s no microphone? That’s the most surprising part, because now, apparently, I’m much more like Shy Ronnie.

I miss that fearlessness.

What do you miss about being a kid?

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Each time we’ve been back at my parents’ home in Philly, my boyfriend has asked to see embarrassing photos or home videos of me as a child. And my parents are all too happy to oblige. Though, before this past trip it had only been photos. And that had been sufficient to showcase my chipmunk cheeks as baby:

and the mullet I rocked for far too long (not my fault, btw, and Mama takes full credit/responsibility):

But this time, in response to my challenge that all our home videos were on old 8mm tapes and therefore we couldn’t actually show any childhood movies, my mom dug out three old VHS tapes.

Her way of saying: challenge accepted.

And maybe I should have been embarrassed, having my boyfriend watch one video of me playing La Cucaracha (poorly) on my trumpet in an elementary school variety show (in my super cool nerd glasses, no less). Or another video of me prancing around as a three-year-old, belting out Christmas carols, and shoving my little brother out of the way while decorating the Christmas tree. (And then stumbling like a Weeble Wobble as he tried to get me back, while I was singing for my parents’ friends at the holiday party.)

But honestly, as much as I might cringe sometimes thinking about some of those phases, my trips down memory lane are mostly pleasant. I can laugh at the often overbearing, outgoing, ham of a child I was and be grateful that I turned out the way that I did.

Though, it definitely helps that I no longer have the mullet or the chipmunk cheeks.

At least not noticeably, anyway…

*No, Mama. That is not another challenge. I promise.

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According to the website, “The Darwin Awards salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it…” and, I’m blogging, so I clearly haven’t done that. But I did do something fairly ridiculous that makes me question my own intelligence.

A little background: Until now, I’ve never had any real food allergy/bad reaction (except for a couple times with shellfish and alcohol, but that’s a different story for a different time). And I’ve always always had a bit LOT of a sweet tooth.

Bad/stressful day? Pass me a Snickers bar, please.

Celebrating? Of course, I’ll have some chocolate cake.

And this was all well and good up until this past weekend.

Without going into too much unnecessary detail, I started feeling ill after a Saturday brunch of chocolate chip pancakes, and proceeded to throw up throughout the course of the day, several times, in two separate parks. (And one playground. Sorry, kids.) A quick study of some recent stomachaches compared to the food I’d eaten previous to the pain showed chocolate to be the culprit.

I was, understandably, bummed.

Which is probably why, when my mom suggested that maybe it was milk chocolate that was bad, and I’d be okay with dark chocolate, I wanted her to be right so badly that I tested the theory.

Oh, and did I mention I tested it at work? I’ll take that award, now.

I was craving chocolate like whoa, so I got a box of dark chocolate raisinets. Delicious, right? Wrong.

Especially not when they come back up…four times in two hours. And not when you have to email the office manager to tell him that you threw up, and could someone come clean that stall? And not when you get home, start to sip your ginger ale and realize that that doesn’t want to stay down either, because chocolate has screwed your system but good for the day. And definitely not now, when even your home bathroom smells like vomit.

All because I just had to know if I could have some kind of chocolate.

My new nemesis *shakes fist*

When I told my boyfriend, who was with me for the pancake fiasco, about the experiment (and its consequences) he responded, “Ok, it’s chocolate. Or some key ingredient in chocolate. Sucks to be you.” (To his credit, he did not say, “I told you so,” or call me an idiot, though I know he was/is dying to. And he also checked in to see if I needed anything, when I was home, curled up in the fetal position.)

When I told my mom, she said, “Maybe you’re part dog. You know, this is why they can’t have chocolate – it wreaks havoc on their system.

So, I’m either a dog or an idiot – or both. And either way I’m not getting any Easter candy this year.

Thanks a lot, body. You win again.

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Keeping with this running theme I’ve got going on right now, I thought I’d share a little story from a race that took place nearly a year ago. Last April I was running the GW Parkway 10-Miler on what turned out to be one of the first really warm days of the season. As in, the temperature reached about 80 degrees by 11:00am.

I’d eaten a CLIF bar before starting out, deviating from my normal routine, but I figured I could use the energy. Around mile 3 I remembered just why I don’t usually eat before a race.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried running while clenching, but it’s not fun. And it’s not easy. There weren’t very many bathrooms along the way (I remember only one, there may have been another) so, had I stopped, there still would have been a line of people to contend with. And seeing as I was still in my competitive “maybe I can beat my last 10 mile time” mode, I didn’t want to stop.

But, good lord, 7 miles feels like forever when nature’s calling.

Can you tell? I'm concentrating so hard on just making it to the end.

Now, take into account that I was getting dehydrated and the heat was making me loopy, and you’ll understand why I was a mess when I finally crossed the finish line. I was standing in front of the porta-potties, just staring at them, white as a sheet, when one of the friends I’d run with (the now-boyfriend) found me and asked what I was doing.

I whispered, “I have to poop. I’ve had to poop since mile 3!” He looked at me like I was crazy (fair) and gestured to the mostly empty porta-potties, that I’d just been staring at, blankly. “So…go.”

Basically what I looked like when he found me...except I was even more out of it then.

Afterward, and after I restored my energy levels a bit, I admitted to him: “The whole time I was running I kept thinking, if I actually poop my pants, do I have the guts to blog about it?

Yeah. I don’t think so.

So here’s hoping that something similar doesn’t happen on Saturday (2 days!). Because mile 3 out of 26.2 is MUCH worse than 3 out of 10.

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Just for the record, I’m not retiring from TMI Thursdays. At least not yet. There’s something surprisingly enjoyable about reliving my most embarrassing and cringe-worthy moments for the entertainment of the blogosphere. However, as I’ve said before, I think I’m running out of stories. I have a few that are bouncing around in my head, refusing to come out. And I have a few more that I know I’ll never write – which is a pleasant reminder that I still have some boundaries.

That said, perhaps this is a good time for a little TMI break – time to let the stories pile up. Or to let them be recalled from wherever they’ve been repressed to. Either way.

So, today, I leave you with some repeats. Arguably my four favorites (limited to my own moments – because I actually cringe the most with this one), that still make my face redden when I recount them. Even here.

Ah, well, in no particular order, enjoy:

1) Look Ma! No hands!

– A lovely, heartwarming tale about a girl and her running experiences.

2) First time for everything

– Not mine, but his.

3) Anything but clothes

– The lengths one will go to, to stick with the theme.

4) Why Jack and I are not friends

– Sometimes I feel like it’s still too soon for this one.

And, as always, visit Lilu (at her new home, no less!) for your daily dose of gross. Consider this the warning.

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