Confessions of a Twenty-Something: Embracing My Embarrassment
A French Fry Horror Story
I wouldn’t ever say french fries are my favorite food; I would argue the opposite. French fries bring me back to being sixteen and on my first real date with my “cool” upperclassman crush. What started as pure excitement completely faded as we arrived at Fat Sal’s, an extreme sandwich shop specializing in stuffing sandwiches with absurd food combos. First date nerves ran through me as I stared into the chaotic restaurant. Yet, nothing was going to take me away from this moment, so I marched into Fat Sal’s and ordered the first thing I saw on the menu: Fat Texas. Hoping my confidence would impress him only left me sitting at a plastic diner table with a Texas barbecue sandwich stuffed with french fries the size of my head. After taking deep breaths, I threw caution into the wind and took the biggest bite of the monster sandwich. I wish this was the best thing I had ever eaten. But this was not a fairytale; this was high school. So, instead, the ranch, ketchup, and barbeque combo shot out of the back of the sandwich onto my date. Looking up with a French fry-filled mouth and barbeque sauce on my face, I choked out a simple “sorry” before swallowing my dread. I feel guilty for blaming a horrible first date on French fries, but at the end of the day, whenever I look at a pile of fries, I think about disgusting sandwiches, messy eating, and a horrible ex-boyfriend.
Moving: Torture at its Finest
My friends say I have never planned anything thoroughly in my life. Which I could say is pretty much true, especially after spending one of the hottest days of the summer shlepping all of my life’s belongings in six cardboard boxes, up 34th street with no plan in sight and only sweat stains to show for it. I couldn’t wait to move, have my own space, and decorate it how I choose. The first move to college is the BIG one, the move that forces you to bicker with your parents, plan your room months in advance, and squeal for 12 feet of undivided privacy. This was a much different affair for my third move and third year. Instead of my parents flying in and renting cars to transport boxes, I employed my two legs and my friends’ generosity sold by the promise of pizza and beer on the porch of my new home. Trudging up the ever-long street, I could hear everything from the clank of shot glasses to the shuffle of books moving around in the horrendously bound boxes of my life’s belongings. Although only five blocks up the road, each trip pushed me closer to chaos. What started out as shlepping quickly turned into dragging, punching, and yanking boxes until I sat on the street refusing to move an inch farther. “Leave me here to die,” was all my friends were able to make out as they stared down at my limp body. But it all made sense when that key turned, and the smell of fresh paint replaced the scent of sweat rolling down my face. The tall ceilings of my room made me feel small, my little world begging to be unpacked and cluttering the space. Later that day, I lay cramped on my single mattress on the floor with my best friends around me, joking about how long it would take me to decorate the space. “Two months,” one shouted. “No, no, it has got to be at least six,” another one interrupted. This house and this room are filled with countless memories, yet six months later, there are zero photos on the walls; maybe my friends were right about me after all.
Sober Karaoke Is In
Karaoke is not something we should only do while drunk! Call me crazy and hand me that mic because I am always ready to belt a song that turns heads of worry, not awe. Whether it is shower singers who should have stayed in the shower or party girls on a mission to master their favorite anthem, I can’t help but feel people are missing out on the joy of butchering their favorite song AND remembering it the next day. “No Scrubs,” “Before He Cheats,” or “Iris,” I don’t care. I will be circling tables, garnering comments like “Do you know her?” from innocent witnesses. Stepping up to the mic may seem crazy in the moment, but the laughter it will garner from those around you is enough to make the embarrassment float away. Whether it’s the old man making a disgusted face or my friends doubled over laughing while recording, I know the spectacle of laughter I created is worth the embarrassment. So, instead of cowering away, I am flaunting around the stage and forcing the emcee to “make this moment a duet.”
A First Kiss to Remember
Your first kiss should be magical...memorable. Like the moment he leans in at the movies or pushes your hair out of your face to see you smile. The show-stopping, memorable moment shouldn’t be a trip to the ER. What started as the most romantic night of my life at the time (a trip to get free frozen yogurt was considered a romantic date by him) turned out tragically, cuddled up with IVs rather than with a boy. A little background: I have a crippling peanut allergy, like sitting at a separate table in elementary school kind of nut allergy. Embarrassing enough as it is, the last thing I wanted to do was find the courage to scream “I’M ALLERGIC!! DON’T YOU LIKE ME???” as my date drenched his chocolate frozen yogurt in peanut butter drizzle. A million excuses race through your mind when you’re head over heels in a crush. Things like “Am I really that allergic to peanuts?” or “Some things are worth risking, and this sure is one of them!” I went with the latter. So, when he leaned in on the walk home, I exhaled, closed my eyes, and prayed. What played out was mediocre at best, like most first kisses go. So, it was no mystery what happened when I had to explain to my parents why red welts were forming on their daughter’s face. And yet, when the nurse at the ER disappointedly asked me if I thought it was worth it, I said, “Hell yes.”
Don’t Run a 5k After Halloween...Trust me.
By age 18, I had never signed up for a race, or better yet, even run three consecutive miles. But that is beside the point because when one of my sorority sisters said I would “never run the annual 5k after Halloween,” I sprinted to get my name on the signup sheet. Competition is something I will never turn down. I didn’t care that it was the day after Halloween, and I was hungover; I was completing this run. Optimism is a funny thing, something that had evaporated by the dreadful morning after. The kind of hangover that forces you to gulp down three Advil for your pounding headache sucks, but the hangover that finds you sitting on the floor of the shower is MISERABLE. In an attempt to sober up and remove the crusting pink hair spray from my head, a miserable shower would have to be my pre-workout. So here I was, taking off with the piercing sound of the horn and a head full of wet, pink hair freezing from the morning chill. I made it through the first mile quicker than anticipated; some say it was luck, but I say it was the residual alcohol coursing through my veins. Let the record show I still ran my second mile. It was just the coughing, walking, and crying that slowed me down. And yet, with the end in sight, I couldn’t believe I did this. Step after pounding step brought me to the finish line, where I immediately crossed, turned, and threw up in a bush.
Lateness May Be the Least of Your Problems
“20 minutes late is on time!” I used to scream when my friends would flash a disapproving frown as I sprinted to whatever function I was enviably late for. You know you have a reputation when those around you refuse to tell you the correct timing of important events. Being physically late is usually the last of my worries; the fact I showed up for that summer picnic might be the greatest feat of all. As everyone knows, once the ball is rolling on a chaotic day...nothing can go right. After a morning of deep cleaning my room in hopes of finding a missing favorite pair of jeans, I got distracted by the allure of putting on a fashion show with my craziest pieces. As the picnic was about to commence, I knew I needed to complete one more chore before I ran out the door: make my weekly trip down to the package room. As I darted back up to my apartment with boxes in hand, horror stopped me in my tracks when I realized I had locked myself out of my apartment; no key or roommate in sight. At this moment, it dawned on me that I would now be attending this picturesque picnic in one of my BEST outfits: basketball shorts, an Eagles 2022 NFC Championship t-shirt, and red cowboy boots. Imagine Lorelai Gilmore on Rory’s first day of school and Adam Sandler had a crossover episode. So, approximately fifteen minutes late (practically early), I sauntered up to the picnic, screaming and waving, “Howdy cowgirls!” before plopping down on the grass, crying from laughter.