Tell me an embarrassing incident you can't forget . . .

Tell me an embarrassing incident you can't forget . . .

Orwell says somewhere that no one ever writes the real story of their life.

The real story of a life is the story of its humiliations.

If I wrote that story now—

radioactive to the end of time—

people, I swear, your eyes would fall out, you couldn’t peel

the gloves fast enough

from your hands scorched by the firestorms of that shame.

Your poor hands.  Your poor eyes

To see me weeping in my room

Or boring the tall blonde to death.

Once I accused the innocent.

Once I bowed and prayed to the guilty.

I still wince at what I once said to the devastated widow.

And one October afternoon, under a locust tree

Whose blackened pods were falling and making

Illuminating patterns on the pathway,

I was seized by joy,

and someone saw me there,

And that was the worst of all,

lacerating and unforgettable.

                                                              -By Vijay Seshadri, The Memoir


I bustled into the chrome steel and glass building looking for a restroom.  My bladder was bursting.  I was four months pregnant and I had driven for four hours to arrive at the settlement conference for Jose v. Clark Pest Control.  Two or three hours ago I'd stopped briefly to grab a cup of coffee and some gas, but I was already late and the station attendant was staring just a little too long.  I pushed on, and now I was getting a little desperate, even looking around my car, to see if there was an old jar I could pee in.

I spied a small blue sign that indicated restrooms were down a dimly-lit corridor.  I sighed loudly with happiness.  I pushed the door open and walked in hurriedly while my brain was still whirring with ideas going over the defense I was supposed to present.  Wait, something seemed out of place.  Urinals in a ladies’ restroom?  And, horror of horrors, a man facing me with his fly unzipped looking back at me in bemusement.

“Oh, gosh,” I sputtered.   “I’m so sorry.”

I turned on my heel and exited as soon as I’d come, my face a beetroot red with embarrassment.

Five minutes later, I attempted to breathe in and breathe out as I’d been taught in my Lamaze class to get my racing heart under control.

I re-applied red lipstick with shaking fingers and marched towards the conference room.  I turned the handle of the door, and as it swung inwards, I gasped. 

The opposing counsel who was waiting for me was none other than the man I’d encountered in the restroom just a few minutes ago with his private parts exposed. 

How I got through the next few hours is a story for another day. . .







The moon is full; it reminds me of Karva Chauth. . .

The moon is full; it reminds me of Karva Chauth. . .

The continuing African Safari Adventure: The rest of the Animal Kingdom!