I remember the perfect night I met the perfect host, a perfectly tanned, perfect looking man with blue eyes and blond hair. He took me and my cousin to the perfect spot, a beautiful Blue Martini Lounge somewhere in Florida. Since we were ghastly uncolored, untonned and feeling a bit like vampires in midday, we tried to at least dress nice and show our good manners and upper-crust upbringing. Everything went perfect. We laughed, we drank, we became old friends, and I felt a certain urgent call of nature which I had to obey. I undid my lady-like leg cross, flipped my hair, inched my chair out and got up. Splaaash! my boob hit the martini glass which went flying all over the perfect see-through D & G Shirt of my perfect gentleman escort. And you talk to me about embarrassment? Cracker please!
How about that time I walked around half the day with my pretty flouncing skirt inside the control top of my tights and only felt it at the subway station? Or the time at that bouncing party, when the bathroom door hinges came out and I was left holding two ton of iron for ten full minutes before somebody came to my rescue? Or the time I refused to order wine, despite the offers of my dinner companions, only to gulp my friend’s the moment the waitress put it down?
I developed entertainment as an emergency aid, my friend. I mean, here you are, thinking I am being funny and wisecracking, while I am praying that the tights with the broken-elastic stop sliding lower and I can leave the group without them fully dropping to the floor. You probably think I am nervous, trying to come up with something new and interesting to hold people’s attention. Well, maybe that is true. And maybe, I am trying to keep you all from noticing that small beige button on the floor, or my pants slowly unzipping with every breath I take. Admit it, you never noticed the strange noises from my stomach either. There was simply too much clanking of glasses and dinnerware.
We are not talking about slips of tongue here, because with me, they are plunges down the Grand Canyon of Embarrassment. I mean I am still trying to live down last Christmas with my family and relatives (don’t ask). Well, maybe sometimes they are Freudian slips. What can I do, my tongue does not like censure much. But do not take Freud too seriously either. What do you expect from a coke-head with a pot habit and a taste for mother.
And I admit that there are times I purposefully lose my button or pour water in the wrong glass. It tells me more about you, and it maybe makes you a bit more open to me. I learn more, I analyze more, and I also pray that I do not lose my grip on the fork as the busboy slides his bubbly butt our way. Oops, too late.