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Posts Tagged ‘embarrassing story’

A break in the usual format today, cherished readers, as my focus is not my particular NTKOG (which, thought useful in a self-improvement slash frugality sense, is desperately unamusing), but one amusing debacle caused by it.

For the sake of posterity:

NTKOG #29: The kind of girl who manages to squeeze every last drop of sartorial juice out of her closet by diving into those piles of love-’em-but-don’t-wear-’em clothes and coming up with a cute outfit.

I am: the master of coming up with excuses to avoid wearing clothes that I love, but don’t have the right occasion for, are too vibrant in color, are too fancy, etc, etc.

I am not: affluent enough for all that excuse-making.

The Scene: Riding home from work on the T, wearing a truly fantastic pink silk blouse I bought last year and haven’t worn because I subsequently realize that, um, I’m not a porn-producer and therefore should maybe not be wearing metallic silk in broad daylight. Also, of note, a pair of new black slacks.

I’m sitting on a coveted single-seater in the stiflingly crowded train car. There’s an attract-ish guy in a green shirt standing near me, but I only briefly scan him, then get back to the book I’m enthralled with.

Suddenly, the T takes a sharp turn and I start to slide out of my seat, and shriek out a shrill, panicked “GAWP!” Checking out the situation, Green Shirt turns gallantly toward me, just as the car jerks again and I TUMBLE ALL THE WAY TO THE FLOOR, grabbing a faceful of his crotch on the way down.

Thank god my mouth was closed.

Unfortunately, the errant headbutt to the groin sends Green Shirt sprawling backwards too. He clutches at the woman beside him, and drags her down with him.

The car is suddenly, horrifyingly silent as our still-standing fellow riders contemplate the human domino chain. I am convulsing and apologizing, and try to gain purchase on the floor, but the car is so packed that the only things I see around me are other people’s legs. Ultimately it takes three people to help me — still convulsing, still apologizing — up. Fortunately, I do not drag any of them into my wide swath of destruction.

After Green Shirt and his own victim have been picked up and dusted off, I look back up at him from my seat and catch his eye.

“So nice meeting you!” I say. “But I guess next time I’ll buy you a drink before I dive straight for the crotch.”

He flashes a pained smile and I get off at Haymarket, even though it is many, many stops before my intended exist.

The Verdict: I think the lessons we can all take from this are three-fold: 1) When wearing new pants for the first time, assess their slipperiness before growing too cavalier about planting your feet on the T; 2) headbutting men in the groin is apparently not the way to get a first date in this town; 3) oh yeah, the whole “wearing clothes I always forget to wear” thing was a pretty good plan, but I need to stop buying friggin’ dresses. And should also maybe stock up on Ace Bandages.

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Intended NTKOG: The kind of girl who, while in a public restroom, makes calls on her cell phone, heedless of public decency, dignity, or her callers’ eardrums.

I am: shy of bladder and faint of heart when it comes to public restrooms. During my two years in the dorms in undergrad, it was my primary goal to be that girl no one ever sees entering or exitin a restroom. I was eerily successful.

I am not:  really big on talking on the phone anyway, let alone in the cavern of bodily shame.

The Scene: The large restroom of the food court in the mall next to my current temp gig. Ideal, I figured, as it’s a) full of people, that b) I will never see again. All morning I chugged iced tea to flood out my bladder’s introversion, and when the moment was right, took my lunchbreak.

It took a while to figure out the perfect victim — er, lucky phone recipient. Finally, I settled on The Ex, because after living together for a few years, I figured the odds were slim that he had not at some point heard me peeing. Heck, he could probably pick the sound of me peeing out of some sort of terrible, dystopian auditory line-up just from my particular bladular cadence. (You can see I’m campaigning hard for the role in his wistful reveries as The One That Got Away…)

After pacing anxiously outside the restroom doors, I finally girded my (aching) loins and stormed the nearest stall like the Bastille. Snag: I was alone in there. So I crouched on the toilet for five or six minutes, clutching my cell phone, before, mercifully, a group of eight or nine women entered en masse. The time had come! 

I started to loosen my muscles, but then — TWIST! As I scrolled urgently through my contacts, I remembered: I deleted his number out of my phone a few weeks ago in the throes of break-up pique. Frantically I scrambled to remember his number, and right as my bladder was slipping, I hit the send button.

Only to find that the mall architects had apparently pre-empted this particular social dysfunction by rendering the restroom I was in as the only thirty square feet in the whole friggin’ mall with no. cell. reception.

For a moment I considered just faking the call, to at least give my fellow restroom compatriots the awk-talk treatment, but no, I decided. It would be against the spirit of the NTKOG project. It would be ignoble. It would be another twenty seconds at least until I was finally able to pee, and that just wasn’t an option.

So What Went Wrong? Ultimately, I decided to wait on this, the NTKOG I have been dreading since the conception of this project. Not to discard it altogether, mind, but merely to postpone it. And like the deferral of all dreaded tasks, this greatest mortification looms before me even more horrifying than before.

On the bright side, this massive TMI moment does suit nicely for the lovely LiLu‘s weekly TMI Thursday roundup — if only because no blog I know of features a WAAAAAAAAY TMI Wednesday.

But, as a cautionary note for everyone other than The Ex, who is now off the hook because all of the surprise will be gone (much like the magic in our relationship after he reads about my pee travails), beware any calls from TKOG. Because you might be next.

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