If there is one thing I know how to do well, it is to embarrass myself.
I've had a lifetime of practice and I'm a pro. In fact I've gotten so good at saying and doing dumb things that my mouth is practically foot-shaped. (Get it? Open mouth. Insert foot.)
To give you a recent example...
This last weekend we had the opportunity to spend sometime in Hometown, Idaho with our families. I have a great in-law family that I really do enjoy and feel comfortable being with. Nonetheless, I would still like to make somewhat of a good impression to remind them why their son/grandson/brother/nephew/cousin picked me as his blushing bride.
The morning before we drove out to the family lunch and Easter egg hunt, I spent a fair amount of time picking out a flattering outfit and doing my hair and makeup just so. I left my parents house, where we had stayed the night, feeling confident about my appearance. Woo! I still got it!
And then I snuck a peek in the vanity mirror in our minivan.
Bright purple and unmistakable, there it lurked, begging for any passerby's visual attention... A hickey.
And not just any hickey.
My very first hickey. Ever.
You know, besides the ones you would give yourself when you sucked on your own arm in 3rd grade class out of boredom and curiosity. (Oh, you didn't do that? Well...Umm...)
This was my very first neck hickey.
And this one didn't even come with some amazing amorous affair.
My husband and I were just messing around the night before--STOP! Not THAT kind of messing around. Just teasing each other about something. He wrestled me down and latched on to my neck for .0013 seconds. There he left The Mark of Shame, flashing brighter than any Scarlett Letter.
No makeup, no ice, no nothing was going to cover that thing up.
Oh well, at least my hair--that is looking goooood--will maybe cover it up. My good impression isn't shot...yet.
And then I spilled an entire water bottle. In the worst place one can spill an entire water bottle.
With burning cheeks, a bright purple hickey on my neck, and looking like I had just peed my pants (not "Oops! I giggled too hard!" peed my pants, but "Woah! Buy me some Depends!" peed my pants) I prepared to greet my husband's entire family. Grandma and Grandpa, all the aunts, a few uncles, cousins, everybody.
As you can see, with my amazing sense of fortune and poor timing, I don't need any help in the mortification department. But that afternoon my seven year old son felt free to offer his services anyway.
Later in the day, he and I made a trip out to our van to get him some Benadryl for an accidental milk exposure he had experienced. While we were out there, I felt free to...ahem..."air out". A couple of times.
My son was walking away as I did, but turned quickly when he heard me. He giggled wildly and asked if I had indeed farted.
I confessed, thinking it would be our little secret. Moms fart too. What's the big deal?
He walked back to the house through the back entrance, cackling. I walked back through the front entrance. As I entered the kitchen where my husband's entire family was gathered, they were laughing uproariously about something. They turned to see me and the laughter escalated to another level. Joe's cousin couldn't even talk because he was doubled over, laughing so hard, and pointing...At me.
What I had failed to remember is, to a seven year old boy, farting in and of itself is a mighty big deal and worthy of proper and loud group announcements.
Hickey on neck.
Guilty as charged. And making the kind of impressions the family will be talking about for years.