by Patti
I have mastered the art of embarrassing my child. After all, isn't that what all mothers work so hard for? We don't lose sleep, hair and sanity for nothing, you know. And finally, after 11 years, I have honed my craft. I am officially The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!
I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.
But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!
The other day I went for a run in the park across the street from our house. S was rollerblading with that same friend, and as I ran in endless circles trying to burn off the 45 lbs of kettle corn I had just consumed, I kept an eye on the girls as they skated and gossiped. As I rounded a corner, I saw them skating toward me, and I couldn't help myself - I shimmied. Yes, I shimmied as I ran and made a crazy face. S turned bright purple and her friend giggled fiercely into her hands, probably thrilled that I was much, much more embarrassing than her own mother - the Sweatpants and Evening Gown Monster. That night, S approached me. "Mom? Why did you do that today?"
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.
But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.
Oh, the delicious plans I have.
I was talking to a neighbor one day - her daughter is S's good friend - and she told me that her children had nearly died from embarrassment when she dared to sing along to a song on the radio that day. She admitted that she may have thrown me under the bus to save face. "I said, but Mrs. P is WAY more embarrassing than I am, isn't she?" Apparently, I have a reputation, because not only did she think to use me as an embarrassment scapegoat - her kids? Agreed. I guess the baby talk I do with my dog in public, or the fact I regularly break out into song, or the cross-eyed monkey imitation I am prone to do with absolutely no warning might have something to do with that.
But I understood my neighbor's act of desperation. She was already in big trouble with her daughter because of that time she ran out to greet the school bus in sweat pants and an evening gown. You see, she had been trying on a new dress for an upcoming event when she realized the bus would be there any second. So she simply ran outside, the dress partially unzipped, her sweat pants the imperfect accessory. Her daughter, after dying a few thousand deaths, simply ran by her, turned inside out with mortification. She still hadn't forgiven her, so that day, when my friend foolishly sang along to the radio, she knew she had to do something. Enter: The Most Embarrassing Mother in the World!
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| Can you believe there's actually a book? |
"I don't know - I felt like it."
"But... your boobs were flopping around. It was SO embarrassing." Her eyes rolled so fiercely she may have hurt herself.
"I was wearing a sports bra - how could they be flopping?"
"THEY WERE."
The next day, once dressed for another run, I did a test shimmy in the mirror. My boobs SO did NOT flop.
But I guess that's beside the point. The point, apparently, is that I am simply too embarrassing to exist. And I have to admit: now that I know this with certainty, I am liberated. This means I can pretty much do anything I want. After all, I am ALREADY embarrassing; it can't possibly get worse. So I'll just go with it.
Oh, the delicious plans I have.
