Anyone who knows me knows debacles of all sorts and varieties tend to abound when my mom and I travel together. For some reason, stories of said debacles seem to amuse friends and family. So I guess it’s only natural people would be begin to wonder about our last trip to Mexico. Got any weird stories?
For the record, our stay was quite ordinary, thank-you-very-much. We lounged on white sand beaches and sipped pina coladas and mango margaritas. We traveled to one of the new wonders of the world, where our poor gringa-selves nearly melted in the sun. We meandered through the shopping district and got fairly fluent in saying, “No, gracias.” Shop here! We are cheaper than Walmart. “No, gracias.” Do you want a free massage? “No, gracias.” Do you want a Mexican boyfriend … well, you get the idea …
And then we decided to parasail.
It was lovely. *sigh* As Dr. Seuss would say, “If you haven’t, you should, these things are fun, and fun is good!” Floating above a sea of blue, the world was at once peaceful and serene. Then we began to drift. It was hardly noticeable at first. But before we knew it we were looming large above some poor, unfortunate man minding his own business on the beach. His children, having run from the waves screaming and crying, each latched to a leg for dear life.
Normally I would have said something clever and witty, but two issues were taking precedence: 1) I was wondering how much of my white pasty butt was hanging out of the harness; and 2) we were getting dangerously close to a crag of rocks.
Luckily, the boat started moving again just in time. And we were floating up, up and away from the humiliation of it all.
Kinda like life, isn’t it?! Just when you think you’re about to get skewered on the crags of despair, the wind lifts your sails. All you got to do is hang in there. Chances are, when it’s all said and done, you’ll look back and say, it wasn’t so bad …
Humiliating Episode #523:
I have a certain pair of sandals with a goofy wooden heel and absolutely no arch support. To say they are tricky to walk in would be the understatement of the year; but they are so terribly cute and so I must. Or so I thought until yesterday.
Yesterday I was wearing said shoes. The clinic my mom works for is a sponsor of the Women’s Fitness Celebration and it was mum’s turn to man the booth. Being the good daughter that I am, I offered to swing by and pick her up so she wouldn’t have to pay the approximate price of a small island to park.
Being the lovely fall day that is was, I decided to detour through 8th Street Marketplace – meander about, do a bit of window shopping. I had just checked to see how big my butt looked in the Urban Outfitters window when I realized something was terribly amiss. That’s where things get a bit fuzzy…
All I know for sure is my ankle buckled … I struggled, I flailed, I yelled “S-ii-tt!” Only that’s not what I said. The next thing I knew I was on all fours, my purse flung to the ground in front of me. Considering that a major event was going on directly across the street I was not lacking in spectators. Like it wasn’t bad enough to be in such a position in the middle of a shopping district–but to be surrounded by people gaping in horror?
You have GOT to be kidding me!
Oh yes, I said it. Out loud. *sigh*
Needless to say, from that point forward it was typical HRT (Humiliation Response Tactics): I grabbed my purse, stood up, and limped off as if nothing had happened. And I did it all while praying I would never again be forced to face the 100 or so faces that witnessed it all. I prayed all the more when I saw a cute guy on a bike, waiting for the light to change so he could cross the street. Unfortunately, my prayers reached the pearly gates a bit too late; he snickered as he passed. Wretched luck.
Perhaps the worst part of all is the fact that the thought crossed my mind – several times actually – that I really should change my shoes before heading downtown. But I brushed the thought away. After all, they matched my outfit perfectly; they were cuter than ever; AND they were already on my feet. Not to mention, I would ony be out for a short period of time. If only I had paid heed.
The moral of the story is this: If God tells you to change your shoes before going out in public, change your shoes …
When you live in a land where it is likely – nay, expected – that you will marry in your early to mid-twenties, by the time you reach your thirties, attending a wedding that has yet to be your own is a daunting proposition. Trust me. I know.
Take this last wedding for instance. Normally I draw the line at the bouquet toss – not that towering over a swarm of eager 12-year-olds vying to be the next bride isn’t a lot of fun. But this wedding was different. This wedding boasted several single women in their twenties and thirties in attendance. Apparently, the comradery of it all made me giddy and against my better judgement, I agreed to partake in the flower throwing festivities.
And that’s when it all went downhill …
For starters, we were paraded out in front of everyone much too soon. While the bride and groom posed for their photo-op, us single girls stood there melting in the sun. If that weren’t bad enough, my feet were beginning to whine. I actually heard them sob at one point. You must understand – I live in Idaho. In a state known for potatoes and Napolean Dynamite, comfort cometh before fashion more often than not. It’s the only thing that keeps us from killing the person telling yet another stupid potato joke! So, needless to say, after an entire summer in flip-flops my feet felt terribly abused being stuffed into stilettos – lovely though they may have been.
All the same, for the sake of everyone around me, I tried to be brave. I smiled sweetly as I watched the photos being snapped. I struck up idle-chit-chat with the girls around me. Finally, I resorted to fidgeting. It was then I noticed a rather large grouping of people to my left. All staring at me. Nonsense, I said to myself. Don’t be silly. Why-ever would they be staring at you? Yeah, I couldn’t imagine either.
Not that I had a lot of time to contemplate, however, as the bouquet-tradition was finally on its way. Like lambs being led to slaughter, we began our pilgrimage to the bottom of the church steps …
Go, Amy! Go Amy! Catch that bouquet!
The girl next to me looked as mortified as I felt. “Is that woman cheering for you to catch the bouquet?” She asked.
So it would appear. And most frightening of all, I had never seen the woman before in my life.
My mom, bless her soul, managed to sidle up next to me and whisper, You may want to consider leaving immediately after the toss.
She didn’t have to tell me twice. Long story short – or at least shorter – the woman was desperately seeking her son’s “next girlfriend” when she spotted me. Oh cruel fate! At one point she even tapped my mom on the shoulder, instructed her to turn around, and then yelled back to her son, “this is what she’ll look like when she’s older.” Seems she was in it for the long-haul.
I have one word: yikes!