Kat, You're Just Embarrassing Yourself

My fervent hope is that my most embarrassing moment, which lasted approximately six hours, retains the title until I die and lose all control of my bodily functions. At that point it’s possible I won’t care anymore.

In my early twenties I lived in San Antonio, Texas and worked for Dodge Reports, a construction news service that was a division of McGraw-Hill. Our small three-person office held a plan room for contractors to examine construction plans before placing bids on jobs.

My title was government news reporter and my job consisted of reading plans and typing the details into a Telex machine, the method used before faxes and computers.

I liked Betty, the plan room attendant. Now that I’m 65, I might have been harsh at the time thinking she was old at 53. I loathed Alan, my other co-worker. He was an arrogant prick who excelled at sycophancy when Paul, the district manager showed his smarmy face.

Paul would sit in Alan’s cubicle and they’d yuck it up over “romantic” conquests. Paul’s favorite pickup line in a bar was to slip a woman a note that said, “Why are you looking so pensive?” I was personally 20 pounds too heavy to receive that note, but I believe I would have enjoyed the opportunity to shove the following reply across the bar:

“I’m worried that Jimmy Carter and Leonid Brezhnev signing the SALT II Treaty won’t really curtail the manufacture of strategic nuclear weapons...Asshole.”

One day I received an unwelcome call from the district manager. The Houston office needed help for a few days. The company flew me from San Antonio to Houston. Paul picked me up at the airport and dropped me off at my hotel. I ordered room service and watched a movie.

I woke up early the next morning puking. If vomiting were an Olympic sport, even the Russian judge would have given me a 10. I called Paul who had to pick me up and take me back to the airport, as my uselessness seemed apparent even to a district manager. Mere moments from dying, I still spared the time from my vomitathon to feel guilty about letting him down even though I despised him. But I’m not here to talk about my doormattish tendencies, I’m here to share my most embarrassing moment.

On our drive to the airport I told him to pull over, but he could tell there wouldn’t be time and handed me his coffee mug. Drum roll, please. That’s right. I threw up in the district manager’s coffee mug.

Southwest Airlines ran flights between the two cities every 45 minutes and my return flight was nearly empty with the exception of eight attractive men wearing suits. I’m certain they could barely contain their erections at the sight of my pasty green face and sweat-soaked hair. The flight attendants took drink orders, but the woman in my section avoided me as I sat with my teeth tightly clenched and my eyes scrunched shut. She knew a spewer when she saw one.

After the flight landed, my fellow passengers and I walked at the same pace through the terminal. They were probably headed home to non-barfing, attractive wives and girlfriends and I just wanted to make it to my car where I could hurl into my lap in privacy.

I wore a dress and high heels and discovered a previously untapped talent when one of my heels came in contact with a puddle of water on the floor. Who knew I could do a perfect imitation of a Keystone Kop? I flew up in the air and landed on my back. As I lay on the floor looking up at those eight men who had all stopped to look at me, I considered not blinking and playing possum. I figured someone would eventually cover my body with a blanket. After a few seconds one of them asked if I hurt myself and offered his hand to help me up. I accepted his offer and thanked him as I rose to my feet.

The only good thing about the incident was the discovery that an embarrassing pratfall will bitch slap the biliousness right out of a person.

My sweet mother used to tell me, “Kat, you’re only embarrassing yourself.”

She was right.