When I went to the refrigerator for my morning short cup of prune juice, I found none. Bummer. Significant bummer. So after work, after my yoga class, dressed in workout clothes, high-heeled sandals (because an alternate pair of shoes had been unnecessary for yoga), and my sunglasses, I entered the grocery store. Picked up two of the largest size prune juice bottles I could find and made my way to express checkout.
I found I was as embarrassed as I would have been purchasing a package of feminine products — when that was the only thing I was purchasing.
Age matters.
I still would be embarrassed to buy only a package of pads or tampons — which practically screams “I need this now!” — but at that moment I realized purchasing prune juice is equally loud. So I tried to create a story as to why I was purchasing so much. Such as:
“It’s the secret ingredient in my roasted tomato bisque. Some people use plum tomatoes; I use prune juice and tomatoes.”
As it turns out, neither the cashier nor the bagger asked the question, but a friend of my son’s, who is in management at the store, rushed over, bearing a huge grin, and, startled, eyed my purchase.
“What…” he started, but I cut him off.
“We’ve decided to drink prune juice instead of wine,” I told him spontaneously, tomato soup recipe story forgotten. “And we drink a lot.”
We laughed, I exited the store, drove home, entered my house, shot a photo of the prune juice — and then thought a photo of myself in my incongruous attire holding the two bottles would have been more effective. I thought it would make a funny status for Facebook, and then neither took the alternate photo nor posted to Facebook.
As usual.
A half hour later, when my husband returned from work, he scolded me, wanting to know why I hadn’t replied to any of his text messages. This was a repeat of the previous day, when I had not only responded in text to an original message but also phoned and left a message when he shot me an irritated text asking why I hadn’t replied to the first text.
I showed him the conversation on my phone — his texts, my texts.
He showed me his phone — his texts.
So I took his phone, accessed the menu, and saw the item “unmark this contact as spam.”
“Ha! You marked me as spam — again!” I said. (My email almost never reaches my husband’s email box because he “inadvertently” labels my mailings as spam. He also isn’t my friend on Facebook and he doesn’t follow my blog. I think this should be telling me something.)
I thought those tidbits might make a good Facebook status. But did I? No.
One (humid) morning when I finished a run with a couple of friends at the health club, I told them, “When I have to peel my socks off my feet because they’re too sweaty to remove otherwise, I know I’ve had a good workout. That’s my new standard.”
I’m glad I didn’t post that self-congratulatory comment on Facebook, because when I enlightened my husband as to my new standard, he said, “Sweat doesn’t mean anything in this humidity.”
Sigh.
I don’t think he meant to offend, really; he was just telling me the facts. This time of year I can sit outside (or inside my house, actually) and drink a cup of coffee for a good sock-peeling sweat. (But I still think my fitness attempts are hard work.)
Another day, I embarrassed myself by sending an email to an address I thought was one of my interns, but it was an attorney in another city who just happened to have the identical name — and not one that is overly common. It was embarrassing — not because it was unlikely — but because I said this:
“I don’t seem to have your certificate of completion for the Sexual Harassment training course required by the university…” and etc.
To which my non-intern replied:
“Hello Sara. Sorry but you must have the wrong xxxxxxxx. I no longer attend xxxxxxx and am an attorney in xxxxxxxx. Sorry for the mixup and let me know if you have any more questions.”
That was embarrassing enough, but then I attempted another email “Re: Sexual harassment training” to this same intern, using a different email address, and got the attorney again. Thankfully, he had a sense of humor:
Of course, since I was now deeply involved, I responded:
His response:
Thankfully, that was all. I thought about offering the exchange as a Facebook status, but, again, it didn’t happen, maybe because I moved on to bigger and better things (and I was at work, of course).
My next escapade at work was equally embarrassing. I followed the Standard of Operational Procedures manual to the letter — and subsequently printed nearly 200 pages of information from my computer that I didn’t need… only to jam the copy machine… which I didn’t know until the secretary kept trying to cancel the file that persisted in printing every time she unjammed the machine and jammed it again… which I only knew because I heard her wandering the hall way asking at each office, “Did you send something to the printer?” in order to get someone to cancel the print job from the computer.
The question to which everyone else on staff answered “No,” while I grew redder and redder in the face, realizing it must be me.
I leaped out of my office, admitted my sin, and probably looked so absolutely panicked and embarrassed that I found grace in the eyes of the secretary. Thankfully, the SOP and the print dialogue on my computer were labeled at fault rather than me. Whew.
That didn’t make it to Facebook either.
I’m not quite sure why I so rarely post to my Facebook page — maybe it is the same reason I rarely shoot photos at real-life events. I am too busy living the moment to take the time to record it. Maybe I want to make my status posts “fluffy” or “pink” (i.e. give the full report vs. just the headline) — as someone once (or numerous times) said of my conversations. Or maybe it’s because I do have a sense of self-preservation and prefer to keep personal embarrassments personal.
Until now, of course, as I expose these personal life episodes in my blog post — the link to which I will post on Facebook.
By the way, this morning I sweated as I drank my coffee, as I tapped on my keyboard, and as I ran. I sweated so much I had to peel off my socks. In fact, I worked so hard that when I stopped running for a cool-down walk, I actually felt chilled and got goosebumps on my arms.
Ha! Now that’s a standard for measuring the intensity of a workout: “I sweated so much I got cold.”
Or not. It’s probably just humidity. 🙂
All Things Work Together 