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Guilty as charged – I missed five days of my blog challenge (in addition to the ones I missed by starting late).
Some things I did this week rather than blogging:
– dismantled my vacuum cleaner and had to Google how to reassemble it
– put up a slightly crooked curtain rod that may very well fall out of the wall and attack me in my sleep
– read AND watched “Silver Linings Playbook”
– started packing for my upcoming trip home
– claimed my first Chow Share (awesome local produce service I enrolled in)
– cooked dinners for my friends (including fish tacos with carrot fennel slaw, for the first time) using some of said Chow Share
– saw the Arizona Ballet perform at the Desert Botanical Garden
– went to a friend’s housewarming party
– cheered on my coworkers in a Corporate Regatta (they came in 2nd!) and got a really ridiculous sunburn
In an effort to get back on track, I chose one of the topics that I thought could make up for my missed posts.
Today’s Topic: Most embarrassing moment (s). Spill.
Ask anyone to describe an embarrassing moment and there’s a fairly good chance it involves a clothing malfunction. My most embarrassing moment is still one of my favorite stories (when I want to laugh at myself) and it involves a significant clothing malfunction.
August, 1996 – I was flying to Georgia for college orientation, having traveled solo just a few times in my life. As you may remember, the Summer Olympics had just concluded (I believe the day before my adventure) and the Centennial Olympic Park Bombing had recently occurred. Although I grew up in the suburbs, my trips into New York City made me weary of strangers; I rarely made eye contact with people I didn’t know and never spoke to people I didn’t know in public places. (This may seem excessive, but more than one homeless person tried to “adopt” me when I was younger – just ask my parents.)
I debarked the plane, determined to make it clear across ATL without interacting with another human, wearing a sundress and my backpack. The airport was a sea of people – jam-packed with foreign tourists who had attended the Olympics. I race-walked across the terminal, attempting to ignore more than a few people who were trying to talk to me. It’s not like I could have given anyone directions and assumed it was in my best interest to keep moving.
Finally, someone seemed determined to stop me and get my attention.
“Miss?” asked a man
I kept walking.
“MISS!” he repeated, more emphatically.
I could not deny he was trying to talk to me.
“What?!” I retorted. (Again, barely 17 years old, not in favor of strangers and generally trying to avoid talking to people.)
He gestured at me, “Your backpack is pulling your dress up in the back. I thought you’d like to know.”
I must have turned 30 shades of red as I realized that, indeed, my backpack had snagged the back of my sundress and I had shown the majority of Olympic tourists in Atlanta my ass that day.