As I mentioned briefly in my post about Caitlin Moran’s book launch last week, the lovely people at Ebury Publishing are giving away limited edition boxed proof copies of Moranthology to two lucky Rarely Wears Lipstick readers. After hearing lots of embarrassing and cringeworthy stories from Caitlin’s life, told to a theatre full of people, I figured that we all need to share a bit more of this kind of thing. So, to be in with a chance of winning, all you have to do is leave a comment on this post telling me about the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you. (Mine’s probably the time I met that bloke off of Blue Peter, but you don’t have to write anything as wordy as the blog post I penned about that little incident.) You have until midnight on Friday 21st September to enter, so be quick. I’ll get someone awesome to pick a winner on Saturday. Don’t forget to make sure you leave an email address so that I can get in touch to tell you if you’ve won. Good luck!
Competition: Win a copy of Moranthology!
Ok, I'll go first!
When I was living in Seoul Korea, I went out to the suburbs to visit a friend of mine and stay the night. It was August – which means muggy and rainy. I didn't pack much and found myself the next morning making my way down a steep set of marble stairs in the pouring rain with only flip-flops.
As I ran for the train my feet slipped out from under my and I landed hard on my tailbone on the corner of a step. In excruciating pain my friend suggested we go to the hospital.
We were in the centre of Seoul by this point and ended up in the most technologically advanced mega robot hospital in all of South Korea. There was literally a helper robot in the lobby.
After xrays, the doctor took me into a room to look at the break I had in my tailbone. Unfortunately for me, the high tech xray highlighted not just my broke bones but every fold of flesh, muscle and ligament – including a very high definition profile of all of my 'lady parts' – the 'folds of my flower' if you will.
As the doctor tried to show me where the fracture was in my coccyx I turned beet red and stared at the floor and he pointed to sections of the xray mere centimetres away from the most accurate portrait my vulva has ever seen.
I raced from the room, collected my donut pillow and painkillers and tried to forget the event ever happened. I have no problem with myself, and generally don't embarass easily – but being forced to look at a portrait of my own genitalia with a doctor pointing at my bits has to be one of the most embarassing moments of my life.
I suppose I can kick this off! 🙂
I don't know if it's THE most embarrassing thing, but it's definitely in the top 5!
When I was 16, I was a very avid thespian, and I took advantage of any chance I got to do a bit of acting. One day, as part of my classes, I was scheduled to take part in two little class performances, playing a male role in both. I thought it was a fantastic idea to bind my chest, but the best I had to do it with was an Ace Bandage (something used to support joint sprains usually). So I did my hack job binding, donned a froofy silk shirt and went with it.
The first skit (in which I played Lysander) went without a hitch, but by the time I reached the second skit, I noticed that my Ace Bandage wasn't staying in place quite as well as I'd hoped. I didn't have time to check it though before I went on as Greek stud Adonis. As according to the script, Persephone and Aphrodite fought over me, each taking an arm and pulling back and forth….until suddenly the buttons of my shirt were flying everywhere. I looked down to see that, given the sad state of my bindings, I was pretty much standing bare chested to the whole room. The whole class, including the teacher (who was video taping this, I might add) burst into hysterics, while I hastily closed my shirt and asked to be excused for technical difficulties. I quickly realized that there was no salvaging the shirt, so I acted out the rest of the skit desperately holding my shirt closed.
I got an enthusiastic round of applause.
I was 20 when I went to work in Germany. The company I worked for organised me a flat 15mins walk from the complex – it's own entrance, but the top floor of a nice old retired couple's bungalow, up under the eaves. I had huge triangular windows at each end of the house, and skylights in between.
Now, being a bit of a late starter, I needed a bit of practise in…. certain areas. I had made sure that I spent my long, lonely Anglophone evenings with a few accessories to entertain myself. There really wasn't a whole lot else for me to do!
One week, I booked a flight to England. I'd gotten into the habit of leaving the huge windows open, with the shutters down, to try & get some air circling in the stifling Westfalian summer. Leaving my toys lined up along the window sill (it was a convenient big flat surface in my tip of a room!), I jumped on my Friday night train to visit my boyfriend back home.
Arriving back on Sunday night, I immediately knew someone had been in the flat. My post had been left on the breakfast bar rather than the mat outside, a coat had been hung up, that kind of thing. I stormed downstairs to knock and ask why. The landlady barely met my eye while she explained that a massive storm had hit, clearing the air but rattling the windows so they'd gone in to shut them.
It was only when I went back upstairs and noticed my plastic friends neatly lined up on my pillow that I realised why she had been so embarrassed.
Probably the most ridiculous thing that happened to me was…well let me explain…
I was 22, and at uni in Durham though I lived in Newcastle. To get to Durham it's probably about an hour on public transport, as I had to get a bus, then a metro then a train then about a 20 minute walk maybe.
So one morning I get myself up and ready…looking gorgeous (well probably not but the best I can do first thing) I grab my rucksack and head off to the bus stop. It's pretty busy and I have to wait about 10 minutes for the bus but I'm happy I have my headphones in probably having a little dance (in my head anyway), bus comes, again quite full so I don't get a seat so I stand at the front watching where we're going. It takes about 15 mins until my stop, get off walk to metro and wait on busy station for about 5 mins then jump on. It only takes 5 mins to get to the train station and there's this quite attractive bloke eying me up. I'm thinking 'ooooo hes lovely' blah blah and am flirting with him with my eyes across the carriage cos it's fun but it's now my stop so I get up to leave.
I bend down to pick up my bag and I suddenly realise that around 100 people have watched me, at some point that morning, wander through Newcastle completely oblivious to the fact I have A PAIR OF THONGS Stuck to the velcro on my bag. Yep there they were. Stuck. Have you ever tried to remove a pair of thongs from the outside of your bag on the underground at 9am?! People look at you with a mixture of 'oh my god that girl has dirty knickers attached to her' and 'ooo she wears thongs' given this was 10 yrs ago… So no he wasn't eying me up, he was laughing at me!!
What could I do? I walked and whipped them off, laughed, stuck them in my bag and prayed they didn't come flying out onto someones head when I pulled my uni files out!!
I recently broke up with my long-term boyfriend, which meant a trip to the bank to close our joint account. We were neither one of us looking forward to it because a) y'know, break-up, talking to strangers, it’s a bit like airing your dirty laundry in public and b) closing a joint bank account seemed even more terrifying and grown-up than opening one in the first place, so we figured being intoxicated way the best way to make the whole thing more palatable (and hopefully forget about it the next morning). We'd made it past the awkward “Why are you closing this account?” stage (“Um, well Mr Bank Person *staring at floor* we're not actually together anymore, err, sorry”) and it was all going to plan till he asked to see some documents. I fished around in my bag for some time, becoming ever more acutely aware that Mr Bank Person knew we were inebriated in the middle of the day and definitely didn't approve, till I finally located it. I pulled it from my bag with a flourish and handed it over in triumph, only to look down and see what I had actually handed him – a sanitary towel. All of which has made me realise that if you feel like a person too scatty and irresponsible to have a joint bank account, you probably are one.
During my first year of Uni, I went to a cocktail bar with some friends. It was having some kind of soul/jazz/other sophisticated kind of music night, so I was attempting to demonstrate that I, on occasion, could too be sophisticated. I was doing this quite successfully by drinking cocktails out of ridiculous tiny glasses (and avoiding the hearty Tequila Sunrise, which came in a pint glass and looked like value for money)and by not going to the toilet ever, so that it wouldn't be obvious that, in heels, I walk like I've got skis strapped on. However, after too many Barbie-sized cocktails, I remembered that I knew an artist who might be considered soul. Or jazz. Or something sophisticated. He wasn't a cool, obscure musician that I could chat about for hours (I only had his Best Of album, which I'd pinched off my Dad) but I could go up to the DJ, quietly request the song (Let's Stay Together by Al Green, that isn't the embarassing climax), and hopefully an amazing song would come on next and everyone would attribute it to me and they'd go, 'Wow, she is the queen of sophistication' and I would go, 'A-thank you, a-thank you' and tip my glass at them. The plan made far more sense at the time than it does now.
So I lurched over, on my skis, leaned in, and whispered my request to the DJ. He stared at me quite intensely, so obviously I assumed that my beauty was so bewitching, and my song choice so excellent, that he was lost for words. I actually smiled at him, sexily (drunkenly), and flapped my eyes around a bit. Then I realised the music had stopped.
My boobs had fallen out of my dress and onto the record. My boobs had stopped the music. In the whole bar. And everybody was now staring at me. Except for my table of friends, who were laughing so hard that each had gone a different shade of purple and one had his inhaler out.
The DJ, God bless his soul, did not break eye contact with me but instead calmly peeled the record from my breasts, placed the record back on the turntable, and carried on like normal.
I don't really remember the rest of the night, probably because I actually died of embarrassment and my ghost had to carry on with the evening instead. And also because of the cocktails.
Ok, so I am 30 so cannot claim my story was down to immaturity or inexperience.
I started to date a new bloke a few months ago, and after disastrous previous relationships on both our parts we have been taking things slow. So when he invited me to come to the evening party of one of his best friends weddings – this was a very big deal. I hadn't met many of his friends or family at this point, and would not know anyone but him at the party.
The party was at a very posh, boutique hotel not far from where I lived, so I knew it would be a glamorous affair. I spent ages the week before planning what dress I was going to wear, what shoes would go with it, and roped my cousin in to help me do my hair. Him inviting me was a big deal, as was meeting his friends, so I wanted to make a good impression.
I was quite nervous as I was getting ready so had a couple of glasses of wine to help ease the nerves. I was in a rush as I was late, so probably knocked back more than I meant to without realising.
Because I didn't know anyone, and was arriving just for the evening do, he agreed to meet me outside in the car park. I got in a taxi to take me there. It was one of those people carrier style taxi's with doors that slide back rather than open out.
I arrive at the hotel, and as we drive up I spot him waiting at the edge of the car park. Taxi driver stops on the road and I pay and attempt to get out. I slide the door back, and it is one of those cars that is quite high off the ground, so to get out in my fabulous dress and massive (new!) heels I brace my hand against the door.
Only I hadn't realised I hadn't pushed it all the way back. So as I lent on it, ready to step down, the door slid even further, my hand slipped down the side of the door leaving a chunk of my palm on the hinge, and I toppled out in a crumpled heap on the floor. Right at the feet of my new boyfriend.
So there I was, having put in all that effort, to be left a crumpled and bleeding mess at his feet.
Luckily he was very good about it. Took me into the hotel, got me cleaned up, plastered hand (in those nice bright blue catering plasters!) and took me into the party.
SO you think the story ends there? You would be wrong.
I put the incident behind me and carried on with the party and a few more drinks. We had a really good time. But not long after midnight I managed to reach my alcohol intake limit, and ordered a glass of coke instead. We were standing outside chatting and I don't know how I managed it, but my new shoes weren't cooperating with my feet, and I fell over onto my bottom, throwing my drink (a large glass of coke!) up my boyfriend in the process, and managing to lose my phone. Two of his friends saw me and came running over to help me up. All of them trying to stifle their giggles!
It took my boyfriend another fifteen minutes to find my phone, and only then it was because he started to call it and saw one of the bushes lighting up.
So yes, now all of his friends know me as the one who fell over! And fortunately my boyfriend thinks it is hilarious and still ribs me about it now!
Never before have I wished my life were more embarrassing. Good luck to everyone above!