Once, on a desert hike at Arches National Park, I became ill, almost to the point of collapsing. I stopped repeatedly on the trail — no trees in sight to deflect the high desert sun — as waves of nausea washed over and around me. After slowly, painfully making it back to the car, my husband peeled out of the parking lot to find one with a restroom.
As he screeched up to the ladies’ room on two wheels and I walked shakily inside, water in hand, a picnicking couple couldn’t hold in their laughter. They were the picture of national park politeness until we disturbed them. My husband and I, in response, were swept up in hilarity and began referring to the whole thing as The Broken Arch Incident, named after the hike that made things go south. We would learn later that I was dehydrated and buy little electrolyte tabs I now give out like candy on New Year’s Day.
We came home a week later and told our friends the story, still cracking up ourselves, but no one laughed. Not once.
“I guess you had to be there,” we said suspiciously. In hindsight, we realize that people, generally speaking, aren’t sure if they should laugh when you’re giggling maniacally about being sick.
How embarrassing.
I had the great fortune of befriending my married musicology professors towards the end of college, through babysitting and housesitting and other young person activities. It was wonderful. By letting me into their everyday world, they introduced me to a way of life I could believe in — thoughtful and curiosity-driven and kind. It shaped my idea of adulthood in foundational ways that are still with me now.
I spent my 21st birthday at their house, celebrating with cocktails and wine on the screened-in porch. With one of them, I’d developed an inside joke around smoking — the idealization of it, the poetry therein. We looked for cigarettes in actual poems and lamented our careers would not support such deviance, him a flutist and me, a singer. So with characteristic wit and charm, he arranged cigars and fancy European cigarettes for the party.
I proceeded boldly with both, posing for photos with the cigar like it was as comfortable as an ice cream cone, like I felt right at home.
I smoked it just as aggressively, with aplomb. My roommate Leah was there and noted how quickly my cigar was shortening, disappearing into the night with all the elegance we’d craved.
What I didn’t realize was that it was disappearing because I was practically eating it for dinner. I’d been told that one should not inhale cigar smoke, but I didn’t understand that one should not inhale cigar smoke. In my eagerness to break the rules, I sucked it down like a vacuum cleaner.
A few minutes after the photo shoot, the cigar decided to fight back. I put it down, stood up, and promptly threw up in my professors’ cat bowl.
How embarrassing.
Another time, on the drive to work, back when I still worked in an office, I was pulled over. I didn’t think I’d been speeding but still cursed loudly before I rolled down the window.
The cop, who looked like he was trying not to laugh, said he thought he’d seen me eating yogurt at the wheel.
“With two hands,” he added. I talked in circles around the truth and hoped the yogurt cup was adequately hidden beneath my bag. I didn’t explain that I’d learned how to drive with my knees, hands-free, by watching my parents from a very young age, so everything was fine. The cop offered that he was concerned for my safety and the safety of everyone around me.
How embarrassing.
If you ever toast English muffins or bagels, then you’ll know what I mean when I say that sometimes they don’t pop out far enough to be cooperative. When I find myself in that particular situation, I look for the closest sharp object to stab, retrieve, and conquer my breakfast into submission. The object is usually whatever large knife I used to cut said muffin or bagel.
After wielding the knife, I’m careful not to touch the sides of the toaster, and aim only for the bread. It’s a delicate procedure. Despite that, my husband told me upon observing this habit that he won’t be surprised on the day I electrocute myself. For whatever reason — impatience and low blood sugar are a deadly pair — I do it anyway.
How embarrassing.
I’ve been certain for years that the embarrassments of my life must exceed any normal person’s. The small everyday scenarios that make my skin crawl cause minor agony paired with endless entertainment. I have inside jokes with friends about embarrassing things I’ve done; they laugh not because they consider the stories to be embarrassing, but because I still remember them.
“Remember the time I hosted a dinner party and didn’t let people have plates?,” I like to ask Leah, my college roommate — the same one who watched me scarf down the cigar.
This was the summer of Jia Tolentino — for good reason, you must read her book if you haven’t — and I eagerly followed the reviews and updates from book tour. I loved the profile of her dog Luna, and I sent this piece on the joy of craft and process to my writer-bff so quickly my phone started smoking. She says to write for the sake of writing, which, in part, was the inspiration for this newsletter.
I enjoyed every bit of my self-prescribed Jia regimen, because she’s brilliant, but in “Jia Tolentino Wants You to Read Children’s Books,” one thing stood out. When asked what book she was embarrassed not to have read, her response began very simply: Nearly everything about being alive feels embarrassing.
Ding ding ding. Same here.
What a revelation it is that others might find their own behavior embarrassing, too —that their inner critic speaks as loudly as mine does. Embarrassment sparks a fight or flight reaction in the nervous system, which is why you may or may not turn red, and your heart may race. That’s the adrenaline talking and it has a lot to say.
Next time my skin crawls, I’ll be glad to know I’m not alone. I’ll remember that even the brightest among us feel the same way. And that got me thinking. Maybe being embarrassed is as much a part of everyday life as anything else — happiness, sadness, laughter, sleep. Maybe everyone has hosted a dinner party with no plates. After all, we’re all friends here.
What happens if we revel in our ridiculousness and celebrate our follies? We can start the Embarrassing Story Support Group. We can talk about the silly shame and hilarity that’s part of trying to function in this world as a living, beautiful being. We can discuss all the times when body and brain were at odds — one reacting with alarm bells while the other says, this is no big deal.
Maybe we pause and take a big breath of joy and awkwardness and mishaps — and together, laugh it all out. Our faces will be bright red, eyes dancing. We’ll sigh.
My friends, how embarrassing.
Between you and me—
When you clicked the tiny heart last week, it touched my tiny heart. Thanks so much for that. Thank you also for passing WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE on to your real-life people. It means the world. See you next week!