It's December of 2000. You are fresh out of college and have landed your first job as an Administrative Assistant making twenty dollars an hour. You feel like you have a six-figure salary and shop with your housemate, Gemma, who has more credit card debt than you have student loans. On the Sunday before Christmas the two of you head out to the Stanford Shopping Mall, a gorgeous outdoor mall in affluent Palo Alto, to buy stuff not for your family like every other last-minute Christmas shopper but to take advantage of the sale prices to buy stuff for yourself. Hey, everyone should make sure that they have at least one gift they know'll they'll love under the tree, right?
After shopping for hours, Gemma wants to stop and grab some much needed caffeine. She orders you both a nonfat mocha. You regret not telling her that you're lactose intolerant but don't want to hurt her feelings or feel like she's wasted her money. So you drink it figuring that a little stomach pain and some gas tonight is a small price to pay for a budding friendship.
The mall is packed. You roll your eyes at the mothers pushing around kids in strollers, unaware that in four short years you'll be the mother pushing the stroller silently cursing the young girl rolling her eyes at you. You're hot and sweaty from the crowds. The stores have their heaters running at full blast in sharp contrast to the chilly but sunny weather outside. You feel like you're experiencing a glimpse into pre-menopause: hot flashes with the entry into Tiffany's, a cold sweat when you walk to the Gap, another hot flash inside Nordstroms. You're tired of taking off and putting on your faux-leather jacket.
You're tired and you want to go home. But Gemma has got a second wind. She begs you to go into Macy's with her and promises it will be the last store. As soon as you open the doors, you feel a blast of hot air. It knocks the wind out of your sails. You feel like you are going to be sick. You think you should leave the store and, discreetly as one can, puke in the bushes next to the door or the garbage can next to the bushes.
The nausea passes and you continue to walk threw the jewelry department to get to the escalator to go upstairs to the ladies department. Somewhere between the fine watches and the 14K gold display case you feel really sick. You weakly say to Gemma, "where's the bathroom?" She looks over at you and asks if you are okay. You've turned a pale shade of green.
You tell her you don't feel very good. Somehow by saying the words, you've released the toxic feelings into your blood. You feel worse every second. Your head is pounding, your throat is tightening, your feet feel like they're stuck in cement. How will you ever make it to the bathroom in time? The crowds are thick. You can barely even see the escalator.
Gemma pushes in front of you to help clear a pathway in the crowd. She turns around to make sure you are still behind her when suddenly, with no control over your body, you throw up.
Projectile. It's crude and violent and wretched.
And it's landed on your roommate. And the jewelry display case. And the side of your hair. And your $100 shoes.
The crowd goes silent and parts like the Red Sea. Gemma walks in front of you paralyzed in what you imagine to be total and utter disgust. The only thing you can think to say is "I probably shouldn't have had that milk in my coffee." As if that could possibly make up for the mess you've caused on the busiest shopping weekend of the year.
A little girl in a stroller says, loudly, to her mother "Eww Mommy. That lady just barfed."
You want to die. Or become invisible. Or shrink so small like the Incredible Shrinking Woman. You vow to never step foot into the Stanford Shopping Mall again. Your ego couldn't take another embarrassing moment.
This post was inspired by the Silicon Valley Mom's Group Book Club selection Much to Your Chagrin by Suzanne Guillette who writes an entire memoir of her embarrassing moments. It is uniquely written in the second person to make the reader feel like they can walk the walk the shame with her. For more embarrassing stories, head to the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog.
