The Art of (in)Discretion

Well, I embarrassed myself the other day.  Again.

I was meeting a friend for lunch at her swanky country club. I’m about as comfortable in a swanky establishment as I am in a thong. It’s not that I don’t feel at home among the Beautiful People; it’s just that I don’t have the proper wardrobe to sit in their midst.  My friend, who bears a striking resemblance to Barbie, has repeatedly assured me that, as of 2008, denim is acceptable apparel at the club. Yet, every time I’ve been there, she and I are the only ones in jeans (or, in her case, Walmart jersey capris that could technically pass for pajamas; however, when worn by a real live Barbie, look like fashion runway chic…ugh, I really must start befriending homelier girls).

As I pulled into the parking lot, I shot her a quick text message to warn her of my shabby appearance:

Wearing denim capris that may or may not have been picked up off the floor this morning.

Only I didn’t send it to her.  I sent it to the client I had met the night before. In those very same denim capris.  He’s a 23-year old cop.

I felt like such a smacked ass.

Unfortunately, that incident wasn’t an anomaly.  A few years ago, I was scheduled to have lunch with the very same girl.  It was a hot summer day and I wore what I thought was a cute, somewhat low-cut, dressy sleeveless blouse (and by ‘dressy’, I mean ‘not cotton’).

Ladies – Did you ever put on a blouse/top/dress and think it looked great, only to sit down and find that your breasts have tumbled out of it?  Yeah.  That’s what happened that day.  Only I didn’t notice it until I was halfway to work, so I quickly shot her a text while sitting at a red light:

I hope you like my boobs because they’re shamelessly displayed today.

Two hours later, my cell phone rang.  The phone number was one digit off from Barbie’s.

That’s odd, thought I.  What are the odds that someone with a phone number so similar to Barbie’s would be calling me?

Me: Hi, this is Donna.
Nervous Man: Uhhh, you sent me a text this morning?

You know horror?  When you can literally feel the blood draining from your head?  Yeah.

Me (MORTIFIED): OhMyGod. That text was meant for someone else.
Disappointed Man: Oh. That’s a shame because you sound like someone I’d like to meet.

Jesus.

Regrettably, I am no stranger to embarrassment.  Most of my embarrassing episodes stem from an almost insatiable need to share information that would be better left bouncing around in my head. It has been a lifelong struggle for me that culminated in what I like to refer to as ‘The Great Salad Bar Debacle of 1987’.

I was a waitress at Steak & Ale at the time.

Side note: I loved being a waitress.  It was hard work and it could be very stressful, but it was fun. Of all the jobs I’ve ever had, that was the one that produced the most enduring friendships.  And my husband – who started out as my friend then accidentally slept with me.  Don’t you hate it when that happens? Neither do I. We were recently discussing pick-up lines with our son (because that’s the kind of family we are):

Mat: What line did Dad use?
Me: He said, ‘I’m going to prove to you that we can sleep in the same bed and not have sex.’
Jack: Heh heh.
Mat: Uugghhh.

As I was saying…

I was a waitress at Steak & Ale at the time.  I had been there for a couple of years and had a few regular customers who would request my table. One couple in particular had recently gotten married and was expecting their first child. They came in pretty frequently throughout the pregnancy and always sat in my station.  One busy Saturday night, I saw them at the salad bar (they had sat in someone else’s station…thank God):

Me: When are you going have that baby? You’re getting big as a house!
[Big as a house, I said.  Big as a house.]
Husband (giggling): She had the baby three weeks ago.

You know horror?  When you can literally feel the blood draining from your head?  Yeah.