Cringe Worthy

I'm the type of girl that makes odd comments during the dramatic moments of movies. Like when Matthew Macfadyen (aka Mr Darcy) walks across the mist cloaked plain with his coat billowing, I said, “Yeah...every guy needs one of those,” loud enough for the whole theater to hear. 

I'm the girl who thinks it's appropriate to say random crap in front of complete strangers. I've announced that, “unlike half the other girls, I'm not nursing,” in front of fifty people. Things sound so much better in my head.

I'm the girl who does embarrassing things in front of strangers. Once, I leaned too hard on a shopping cart handle, popped a massive wheelie, and ended up making a mad dash after a runaway cart in front of everyone waiting to check out. (Meh, the bread only got squished a little.)

It's all really great fodder for a writer like me, right? However, there is one horribly, embarrassing, terribly awful moment that's too bizarre to use. I may as well share it with you.

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He was adorable, spunky and cute with a stocky build, quick grin, and dark brown eyes. Plus he was a Yell Leader. You know, the dude on the college cheerleading team who tosses the skinny-minnie girls around like rag dolls. (I may have been smitten by those girl-tossing biceps...maybe.)

I arrived early to class and chose a seat between my girl friend (on the left) and Mr Muscles (on the right). My friend was busy chatting with someone else, so I put my notes and multicolored pens in order and doodled until the professor's arrival.

So, there I was in my built-for-a-righty desk when my purple pen slipped out of my hand and landed between the aforementioned Yell Leader's feet. Dashing knights are meant to come to a lady's aid in moments of duress, right? I gave him a half-smile, just to be sure he would play his part. He was deep in conversation and made note of neither me nor the pen. There was nothing to do but take matters into my own hands. 

It was simply a matter of leaning sideways and reaching far enough to lay a finger on the purple pen. The plan was sound, eloquent, uncomplicated. 

Except I couldn't quite reach the pen. I tried again.

I reached a bit too far. All my weight was thrown onto the bar--you know, the one that attaches the chair to the desk. Quicker than you can say, "Sarah is a big, dumb, idiot," I lost contact with the carpet. Feet flailing, if I'd been in petticoats you'd have seen my granny panties airborne. I would have landed on the floor, desk and all, if something hadn't broken my fall. I looked up. A pair of dark brown eyes glared back. 

Meanwhile, my friend was on the other side, frantically trying to pull me upright. The desk and I remained firmly stuck in the Yell Leader's lap. I hazarded another look. Nope. He was not pleased. Luckily, he put that rage (and those muscles) to good use and popped me back up.

A southern belle would have made good use of such a moment. One hand on her brow and a drawled “My hero,” would have set everything right. (Given my overacting tendencies, everyone would have laughed it off.) Likewise, if he had been the romantic lead a girl dreams about, our little interlude might have been the beginning of something wonderful. “When we're seventy, I'll tell our great-grandchildren that this is when I fell in love.” He might have said that. But he didn't. 

Before I could say anything clever or sink into the ground like I wanted to, Mr Muscles saved me the trouble. “Next time,” he said coldly, “just ask.” The lesson was clear, ladies, nice boys are only flattered when you fall for them, not on them.  

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My advice, ladies and gentlemen? Keep record of your mortifying moments for posterity. Or whoever reads your blog. Or in case you need to humiliate a character. Good luck!

Like to read a bit more about my ridiculous life? Try Adventures in Kindergarten, I'm Too Old For..., Panic City, Population: One, My Boyfriend, The BBC, or Geek Chic on for size! Thanks for stopping by, and as always, Happy reading!