I may be weird in doing this, but I often interview myself in my head to make sure I understand something or that my life is going the way I want it to. (Don't look at me like that. My mother is even weirder than I am: she explains everything to Ben Franklin in her head. And, no, you cannot use this. I already have it in a story. And please don't tell her I told.) When I get to the Most Embarrassing Moment question, I have two stock answers to give--though sometimes it goes off into a discussion of the time I walked into an escalator, but that's only if I like the interviewer (yes, the voices in my head have distinct personalities).
What brought this up is that a few nights ago Becky and I were talking about our experiences climbing things. When I was younger, I would be up any tree I saw as quickly as I could climb. I used to scare my parents because I very literally had nearly no fear and never thought before doing whatever I wanted. I expressed this to Becky, and she said that she was always afraid of climbing high and that the biggest risk for her was climbing a fence. My first stock Most Embarrassing Moment involves my climbing over a fence. The second involves my climbing onto a horse.
To orient you for the first story, here's the background you need: between sophomore and junior years of high school, I attended field hockey camp at UConn with two other girls from my team who were friends at the time. We were on what we dubbed the Mutt Team (practiced together and played in the tournament together) because every other team had come as a whole from their respective high schools. We were all the girls who randomly signed up on their own. (This plays into another story involving salt and pepper shakers and winning keychains, but I fear this post is going to be monstrous even without that deviation.) Our dining hall was in the same building as our dorm rooms, but both were a good three minute or so walk from the playing fields. The dorms didn't have elevators, and we were staying on the fifth floor, so if you forgot something upstairs, it took a while to go get it. This happened one day at lunch, and being sixteen-year-old girls, the whole group waited and was late to afternoon practice.
UConn had recently redone their playing fields, and it was an all-in-one situation with a state-of-the-art track circling the football field/soccer field/field hockey field. As we approached the chest-high fence that enclosed the whole area, our coaches started yelling, "You're late. You're running." Over the past few days, we had taken to climbing over the fence (right foot in kinks, left leg over the top and left heel into the kinks on the other side, right leg over, and push off from your hands) rather than walking to the gate, which was incredibly inconvenient given the location of our team's practice area.
The power of the pull of the mob never ceases to astound me. During the summer I spent in an intense dance program, I went from pink tights I cut holes in the soles of (for easy foot access for pointe) inside a neutral leotard with dance skirt to two-toned leotards with footless black tights on the outside pulled as high as possible with a dance belt . . . because that's what everyone started to wear. During college, my dance "uniform" changed again to cut-up shirts and black pants. Well, as ridiculous as it might sound, one of the pressures at field hockey camp was to wear your stick bag diagonally across your back and chest. Until that point, I had always worn my bag over one shoulder, with my stick perpendicular to the ground--but now my old behavior had slowly morphed into the new . . . and I was "hopping the fence" for the first time with my stick bag in this new position.
With our coaches yelling a us for being late, telling us that we were adding laps to our run for every minute we kept them waiting, I planted my right foot, lifted and planted the left, lifted the right, pushed off, and . . . nothing but a riiiiiiiiip. If you're thinking, "Oh, Nell ripped a big hole in her shorts. We've all done that. Why is that so embarrassing?"--think again. Not only did I rip a hole, but that hole came about because the fabric from my shorts decided to become one with the fence. I was stuck, hanging from the fence by my shorts, a little too short myself to touch the ground and propped at such an angle that I couldn't get a foothold.
"Nell! Laps! Now!" yelled my coach from about twenty feet away. "Why aren't you running?"
"I'm trying!" I replied, mimicking jogging while still hanging from that fence.
It took both coaches to get me off that fence, and one of their long-sleeved shirts tied around my waist to cover up the whole in my shorts.
As I previously mentioned, my other embarrassing moment involved jumping as well. Horseback riding was an optional activity at sleepaway camp. Because serious riders were likely at horse camp, I always found myself in the Advanced riding group. My sleepaway camp was an all-girls camp, with the boys' camp across the lake. The horse stables were on the girls' side, and the number of boys taking riding lessons were usually limited to one or two per summer session.
This one particular summer (I was probably thirteen), Brian was in my riding class. More than a little boy-crazy at the time, I had an instant crush on him.
[In my defense, I think I would have "liked" him even if he was one of twenty; he looked like a Norman Rockwell baseball player, and I've always been a sucker for that look. (Several years after this summer, my mother and I went to the local mall and had lunch at Uno's where our waiter was none other than Brian. Becky never believes me when I say that I recognize someone, so I'll be specific and tell you that I asked him and confirmed that it was, in fact, him. I still found him very attractive.)]
Being thirteen (and my weird self), I decided that the best way to get Brian's attention was to be "too cool for school" and somewhat argumentative. Brian and I were closest in height (besides The Twins, who were the same height), so we wound up partnering a lot for activities.
On this particular day in question, our riding instructor decided we were going to learn to mount bareback. The Twins, Brian, and I shared a horse. I don't know if you know anything about mounting a horse in general, but when it's outfitted with an Eastern saddle, you always mount from the left by placing your left foot in that stirrup and then swinging your right leg over the horse's back. When the horse is bareback (without a saddle), the idea is to jump as high as you can, plant your palms on the horse's back, and use your momentum to swing your right leg over the horse's back.
I have very little arm strength and had even less then. As a result, I had to get a running start to get enough momentum going. I backed up a few steps, pushed off the ground with all my might, and bounced off the horse's mid-section. I landed on the ground. Everyone had an opinion of what I should do. "Jump higher." "Jump up more." "Get more of a running start."
I backed up again--a little farther this time--and ran and pushed with all my might. I bounced off the horse again. I was back in the dirt.
"Try taking off from your other foot." "No, try jumping from both feet." "Grab her mane when you get to her. She'll react by pulling away, which will help you get up."
Back up. Run. Bounce. Dirt.
"Jump higher."
That was it. I was angry. I was going to get onto that horse if it took everything I had.
Back up. Run. JUMP!
I sailed right over that horse's back. At the very last second, Brian grabbed my ankles. So, now I'm inches from the ground with a guy I have a huge crush on ACTUALLY.TOUCHING.ME while I dangle. The horse, of course, is still chomping away on some hay, oblivious to the fact that two kids are making an inverted "v" over her back.
"LET GO!" I yell, panicking because I can't touch the ground, because I'm flailing while trying to reach the ground, and because this is the first time a boy has really touched me. And, I can't forget the "tough chick" routine I had been trying to pull with him. "LET.GO."
I was very glad I was wearing my riding helmet because without any warning, I was suddenly on my head and then on my back in the dirt, yet again. At least this time it was on the horse's other side.
The instructors let me get on using a stool after that.
1 comment:
Nell, those stories are great. I have even more of an appreciation of them since I know you in real life and can try to picture those things happening to you. :)
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