Mortification Monday

I’m stealing my title from Marinka at Motherhood in NYC, on of the funniest bloggers around.

When I taught high school in my early 20's, I was also the sponsor of the yearbook. That meant lots of Hawaiian pizza, stress, and late nights when we would “hit the wall” and giddiness would ensue.

One of the prime motivators I used with my female editorial staff was the promise of an embarrassing story about myself every time they made a major deadline. Lucky for them, yet unluckily for me, I had a lot of material. The stories had to be interesting enough to keep 17 year old girls interested at midnight, but they couldn't be more than PG-13.

Sooooo, today I’ll share with you one of those embarrassing stories. Not sure if it will somehow motivate you in any way on this Monday, but we’ll see.

I was in college. It was an early spring day like today, when the weather was unseasonably warm. Back from class early, I entered my empty suite, proceeded to my room, and decided to change into some cooler clothes.

As I stood in front of my cheap full-length mirror glued to my closet door, I decided to survey the estate, including the back 40. You see, my freshman 15 pounds had morphed into a sophomore 20, and so on, and swimsuit season was a mere 8 weeks away (also kind of like today!).

I stood in my bra and underwear and started to wiggle, then jiggle in front of the mirror. The flesh was swaying; the room was rocking.

I looked up. There, in the open doorway of my room, stood a relatively new acquaintance, mouth agape, backpack dangling to the ground. He looked stricken. I screamed and dove under my covers, the flesh still a-flapping.

This poor young man had a few days before asked me to attend a dance with him. He must have found the outer door to the suite ajar when he stopped by to discuss minor details of the date. He got more than he bargained for.

You may be thinking, “What’s the big deal, Anna?” Well, before marriage and kids Anna See was a demure young lady, certainly not prone to jiggling her naked flesh in mixed company.

Remember, these were simpler times. This was before “Girls Gone Wild” videos were introduced, and before 8th grade girls started “sexting” boys by sending nudie pics of themselves to any mildly interested parties.

Aargh.

A few minutes later I got a phone call from the young man. He did not mention the incident, but merely said, “When I was in 10th grade English class, I farted big-time during Silent Reading. Everyone knew it was me.” Click.

What a class act! That was just what I needed to see that I would recover from this, and ultimately go on to have many more embarrassing moments. I appreciated his graciousness and, looking back, I'm even more grateful that thongs weren't big yet on my campus.

Whew.

To read the incredible story of how this young man’s life and mine intersected almost 15 years later, check out one of my favorite posts.