Only once had I been cut up before, and it was for this laser eye surgery vision thing. It’s not exactly the biggest deal. The doctor doesn’t make you wear a gown with the open fanny area. You’re not doped up with medical grade opiates. You can wear your business suit during the procedure. You open your eye lids, hold still for 20 seconds, and congrats, you now have eagle vision. You’re back in your cubicle by lunch.

I remember thinking after that procedure, “Well, gee, I hope my next surgery is more thrilling.” Maybe I’d be lucky and get my hand chopped off in a lumber mill accident and have to get a cadaver hand sewn on. (I don’t work in a lumber mill, but a boy can dream, no?) What if the donor’s hand was more tan than me and the coloring didn’t match at the wrist? Or what if they gave me a woman’s hand because that was the only one in the freezer at the time? What if after the surgery I was at an important business meeting and I went to shake someone’s hand, and my new hand came right off my arm and the other guy stood there shaking an orphaned hand? That would be embarrassing.

As it turns out, my second surgery wasn’t much more exciting than the first. It was just a boring old umbilical hernia surgery. I wish I something way cooler to report. But I don’t. I only had like a 2% chance of death while in the operating room. Snore. I didn’t even bother to update my will beforehand.

So, what is an umbilical hernia and how did I develop one? No idea. I guess it just happens. A natural part of aging, the surgeon told me. I didn’t even bother Googling it after the diagnosis, that’s how boring the thing is. How I found out that I HAD an umbilical hernia is sort of interesting, however. Several months ago I was dating a woman named Maureen and she was staring at my belly button one evening (as women do). All of a sudden Maureen’s face turned sour and scrunched up. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “You have something wrong with your belly button.” I looked down because, well, I wanted to see what she saw.

I’ve probably only looked at my own belly button one other time in my life and that was back in high school when I at a party and poured a shot of Early Times whiskey into it and asked if any girl would care to slurp it out. No takers.

But when I looked down, at now forty years old, to examine my navel for exactly the second time ever, I sort of saw what she was referencing. There was something wrong. My belly button wasn’t totally fucked up or anything. But it wasn’t, well, normal, either. It was misshapen. The best I can explain it without having you retch all over your Pumas is that some of the inside parts started making a dash for it. A move toward the light. To freedom!

I could have showed 20 of you my belly button at the time and 18 of you would have said, “Dude, you have a really sexy belly button. I mean, aside from the dark hair surrounding it. Wait, aren’t you blonde? Shouldn’t those stomach pubes be lighter?” In other words, to the non-medical professional, it looked no different from the male models gracing the cover of Men’s Health. Well, a little different. Less ab definition. I’m talking about the actual hole. It’s a pretty killer hole, if I do say so myself. And I do. Or rather, I just did.

But now it was less killer. Like an aging Hollywood starlet, it had lost symmetry. And like an aging Hollywood starlet, there was only one reasonable option – surgery.

Oh wait, let me go back to the discovery. I’m not good at linear storytelling.

So, Maureen, being a senior graphic designer at a prestigious advertising agency, knew a fucked-up belly button when she saw one. That previous sentence was meant to be sarcastic, because Maureen had no medical training at all. Her best skill was designing print advertisements for the largest cheese distributor in Utah. A noble skill, but not one that included the hippocratic oath. But since I believe virtually anything anyone tells me, I assumed she knew stuff about hernias.

I started freaking out and ran to the bathroom to see my now-imperfect belly button staring back at me. I yelled over to Maureen to ask why she was confident that I had a hernia. I pressed my right index finger directly into the hole, because I thought hernias were supposed to hurt. I was a little grossed out, but there wasn’t any pain. She replied that her last boyfriend had the same shape in his belly hole and it turned out to be an umbilical hernia. She went with him to the hospital for the procedure. Also, nursed him back to health. She promised she’d do the same for me.

The next day I called a surgeon that knows about this stuff. I walked into his office and fifteen seconds later he confirmed what my ladyfriend had asserted. I had an umbilical hernia. He told me there was nothing I could have done to prevent it and that it was not a big deal. He suggested I get the surgery, but said I didn’t have to do it immediately. I had a suspicion that Maureen was on the verge of dumping me and I wasn’t about to go back out in the dating world with a messed up belly button. It’s hard enough being single. The doctor told me to think about it and I said, “No need. Let’s do it!” He didn’t say so, but he must have been impressed by my decisiveness. It was an act of leadership.

On the way out, I casually mentioned to the surgeon, “Actually, doctor… I’ve had a hernia before. TWO, actually.” He stopped and said, “Oh, really?” And yes, that much IS true. I did have a double hernia once. But, to be honest, I was just showing off. I told him that when I was born the doctors screwed up my mom’s epidural and hit her spine with the needle. It immediately put her in a coma. I was born and hustled off to my two grandmothers while she recovered. And from day one, my two grandmothers put me on human food. A tactical error in hindsight. My dad probably didn’t know any better (I was the first child), and he was probably bummed his wife was in a coma. So, he didn’t notice I got fat pretty quick.

When my mom woke up from the coma a few weeks later and they took her home, I was already obese. A big, fat, disgusting baby. And babies are already disgusting, even when they’re not huge slobs like I was. It was so bad I was raced back to the hospital where the doctors performed an emergency double-hernia surgery on me. The doctor yelled at my mother for letting this happen and said, “I’ve never had to cut through so many layers of fat in a baby before. You ought to be ashamed!”

Funny enough, I’ve never had a weight problem since. I was only fat as a baby. Which is the best possible time to have a weight problem, now that I think about it.

Anyway, after I was done telling this story the doctor laughed. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he clasped his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well, D.J., congrats. You’re about to have a second hernia surgery.” I corrected him and said, “Third.” His mouth started to open to correct me that a double hernia isn’t really two hernia surgeries, but he realized I was just making a joke. He laughed and pointed at me with a look that said, “Good one!”

I left the office and took stock of my emotions. I wasn’t sad. Nor scared. Not even angry. I was kind of excited, actually.

I called Maureen and said, “Remember that thing about my belly button? You were right!” She was in the middle of a cheese video shoot for an Instagram campaign. I told her I’d need a ride to and from the hospital in two weeks. and reminded her of her promise.

My belly button was about to get back to perfect. And, even if Maureen dumped me, I’d once again have a perfect hole and likely a cool scar and we all know chicks dig scars. The only scar I possessed at the time was a two-incher on my butt where I fell through a glass table in high school. It’s not exactly the kind of scar that you’d call a panty-melter.

I was excited. Who wouldn’t be?

… part II coming up …

I’ve vomited maybe three times in the past dozen years, all from a flu or stomach ache. But back when I was drinking, puking after a binge was expected (and often welcomed). I would feel so shitty after a night of double whiskey sours that the next morning heaving out my insides would provide a modicum of relief. Sometimes even a small jolt of endorphins. It’s like a runner’s high, but without the running and nipple tape. But barfing sober, it just sucks from the coming attractions until the end credits.

A few weeks ago I puked while sober, but this time for a reason new to my experience. Motion sickness.

Well, motion sickness is not new to me. I experience it more that the average joker. Even in the calmest waters I have to down four capsules of Dramamine prior to leaving shore. And still I get queasy an hour into the boat ride. On dry land I also have to be careful. I have a personal trainer and I had to convince him in our first session that, while I would love to do burpees, after five reps I get nauseas. I’m sure he thought I was lying because that’s the kind of thing one would say to get out of doing burpees.

Once I took a woman to Six Flags for a first date. I LOVE ROLLER COASTERS. After a full day of riding, I had turned green. I can’t imagine she was impressed. The nausea was still present two days later. I called up my friend who’s an ENT because I was convinced something was wrong with my brain. “Nope, you’re fine. You’re just getting older.” With my natural sensitivity to motion sickness I can’t do the big roller coasters any longer. I have a virtual reality headset and even the simulated Six Flags app caused a few dry-heaves.

For a holiday gift my girlfriend took me on a trip to Cabo San Lucas. I wish I had stories to regale you of jamming with Sammy Hagar at his bar or getting into a knife fight with the Brujos. But none of that happened. We stayed busy, though. One of the activities was paddle boarding. For those unfamiliar, you stand on a surfboard and paddle around with an oar. It looks simple and I’ve seen children do it without struggle. We hired a guide to take us out into the ocean for a lesson. First he showed us the basic moves on land. It’s not complicated. You stand up and paddle. I felt confident.

Once in the water, all my dry-land practicing was for shit. I couldn’t stay up for more than ten seconds. Beth got up on her first try and never once fell. It was embarrassing because I was doing exactly what the instructor had taught me just minutes before. But once I was up my legs would shake and down I’d go. My quads were destroyed within minutes. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. Neither could Beth or the instructor. Both silently watched me stand and fall, stand and fall, stand and fall. I was so exhausted after the twelfth failure that I had to sit on the board to catch my breath. I felt like I was taking up all our time and asked if I could just sit on the board and paddle instead. This was even more humiliating. A few minutes later we passed a group of twenty paddleboarders. Not one was struggling. Or sitting.

For the next twenty minutes we paddled away from shore over to one of the rock formations. As we passed a  docked cruise ship, the nausea hit me. All of a sudden on I’m feeling every wave. And it hurts. I didn’t want to ruin my girlfriend’s experience so I forged ahead trying to ignore the feelings of impending doom. Then, a more frightening thought popped into my head. I’m twenty minutes from shore. No matter how sick I was about to become nobody could rescue me. We paddled on, but my brain jolted me with a brilliant idea.

Turn around. Right now.

I could barely speak by this point. I muttered out loud that I had to turn around. Bet and the guide were a distance in front of me. She yelled to ask what was wrong. That’s when I puked. All over myself. I was so motion sick I couldn’t even turn my head to puke into the water. I puked right down the front of my bare chest and watched as it pooled into my swim suit. I thought about jumping in the water but I was worried that I wouldn’t have the strength to get back on the board. Beth and the instructor turned their heads away in disgust. I must have been downwind. For good measure I heaved guts seven more times.

As I mentioned earlier, barfing while sober provides no relief. I prayed to the angel of death to take me. I had nothing to live for. I’m not being dramatic. I legitimately said, “Well, Death, I had a decent run. I still have all my hair. Let’s go.” As per usual, my prayers went unanswered.

I had no choice but to start the journey home. I told Beth and the instructor to go on without me. They followed anyway. I was exhausted by the time I got to the beach. I had to sit in the water for a few minutes to collect myself. Also, this helped rinse off the puke. Beth, seeing that I was now safe, asked to go back out for more paddleboarding. The owner of the rental place came over to me. He said, “Don’t worry, it happens.” I could tell he was lying. I saw at least a hundred other paddleboarders go out and not one came back with bile down the front of their chests. He asked, “Too much partying last night, huh?” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the only partying I did was to eat both a seafood appetizer and seafood entree in the same meal.

I drank a bottle of water and passed out on the sand for ninety minutes.

When I woke up Beth was putting her board away and I felt fine again. I wish that I had a photo of my face when I was sick, but you can’t bring your camera while paddleboarding. It would have made a great animated gif – my paddleboard changing color from white to pink. You’ll have to use your imagination, and if I’m even a halfway decent writer, you have already created the visuals of my experience. I can assure you, it was much worse than you imagined.

This is about the same spot in the water when I barfed. So at least it was a beautiful setting, right?

group paddle board photo credit: 1_9_16 am paddleboard tour Lido Key Florida 04 via photopin (license)

I’ve never had huge aspirations for this blog. I still don’t. Here at the blog conference in Las Vegas there are a lot of speakers that talk about monetizing your readers and how to make a career out of your passion. I’ve been around long enough to know that can be a very difficult goal to attain. It’s not my goal.

I’m lucky that I have a day job, and I’m happy. I work with one of my favorite people (boss) and he allows me to bring my dog to work.

This has and will continue to be a place where I write about whatever nonsense flows into my head. Sometimes the content is decent, other times it sucks. Thankfully, most of you forgive the bad days. I try to do three things in each post – be vulnerable, honest, and funny. These are my blogging values and most of the time I achieve ’em.

At this conference there’s a similar thread woven into most every speaker’s presentation. Engagement.

I judge myself as having done only a mediocre job of this over the years. I can be selfish. There are people that write comments who are bloggers that I’ve never read. Those who tweet out posts of mine that I don’t thank. Comments that go unanswered. Emails I receive and never write back.

This is not how to build a strong community.

I’m not entirely selfish. I addressed dozens of holiday cards this year and then accidentally threw them away. I’ll do this card exchange again next year, as I know some of you get a real kick out of it. I still have the cards you sent me over the  years. Also, I’ve done well at replying to most every blog comment I’ve received over the past six months.

I realized today that you weren’t getting email notifications on replies I made to your comments. I always wondered why virtually none of you ever replied to my reply. I have replied to thousands of comments over the years. You never saw them, most likely.

So, a few things have changed.

First, you will receive email notifications if  anyone  (including me) responds to a comment you make on a post.

Second, each time you post a comment a link will show up underneath with your most recent blog post (if you’re a blogger). This way more of you will find each other’s work.

Third, I’m going to do a better job replying to tweets, Facebook comments, and emails. I have always read each one, and I can’t comment on everything, but I’ll be more active.

I’m not down on myself, but there is room for improvement. Your readership means a great deal to me.

Oh, and get this – I’m currently fighting with my dickhead app developer. The current one I have is awesome, but the old one f’d me. He lost a file which makes it impossible to update the Android app. I’ll have to delete the current app from Google Play. Then you’ll delete it from your Android phone and reinstall the new one. What a pain in the dork.

I haven’t found the words to convey how angry I am.  If I had more airlines miles I’d fly to China and put a chopstick through this jerk’s appendix. Apple users, you’re okay, and a new version of my app will be available in a few weeks.

I’ll ask that you collectively pray to your higher power that someone hurts him deeply – like a stranger who points at his shoes and laughs at them for being out of style. Some people are sensitive to that stuff.

If you don’t see the video below, click here to view!

And it’s time, like that ridiculous phoenix everyone talks about metaphorically (but nobody actually knows the story) and rise from the ashes.

Today, and for the next twenty-four hours, you get to pimp out your blog in the comment section of my blog. Get some new followers! Increase your internet exposure. Make friends with other bloggers!

Wait… not so fast, Turbo.

You gotta earn the free plug.

In the past I’ve made you write me poetry or reveal something embarrassing about you that nobody else knows. Let’s do something equally awesome.

In order to promote your blog, this time you must tell me something embarrassing about your father.

Maybe he farts in front of your friends. Calls your best friend Brent when it’s really Brett. Only tips out at 10%. Runs around the house in his underwear, and they’re not boxer briefs but tight whites.

My most popular story is the one where I saw my father’s donger as an adult. I’ve already done my work. Now do yours.

This is a great way to kick off Father’s Day next month. Or not a great way. I don’t know. Don’t really care.

So remember, start the comment with… My father is embarrassing because he  ______________.
Then put your blog underneath and tell us what it’s all about!

Special thanks to oSex co-host Karen who came up with this concept.  Watch our latest episode!

photo credit: WilWheaton via photopin cc

For the past month I’ve taken time off and haven’t made the blog a priority. It’s a bummer because I miss my regular commenters. I also miss sharing my daily life. Quite frankly, outside of doing a lot of dating, not a whole lot has happened to mention. But not much happened last year and I still managed to write every day without a miss.

I’ve been putting a lot of energy into the podcast and new videocast and people seem to dig it. But this blog is my true passion. With that being said…

Let’s talk about wearing the same shirts on dates with different people.

I have determined that a uniform is necessary for the well-being of my dating.

If you’re going on a few dates a week then, I’ve learned, you have to always wear the same shirt the first time. Because you’re going to forget what you wore with who. Now, I’m not out galavanting with every young lovely I come across. But even with just a couple of dates now and then, you aren’t going to remember that you put on that silver dickie with Barbara last Tuesday.

Now, what if you wore the same outfit by accident to the same date twice in a row? Who cares, right? Not me – I don’t give a shit. But women do. I know this because I’ve asked a bunch of them. I’m not exactly sure what the big deal is, but they notice. I can’t tell you what any person I’ve taken out has worn. I hardly notice. I wish I did as my mom’s business  is high-end women’s fashion clothing, and you think I’d be more tuned in, but I’m just not. This is embarrassing and try not to judge, but I can’t tell you anyone in my life’s eye color. I know I’m sort of blue. Couldn’t tell you my family, friends, or any girlfriend’s peepers.

On the positive side, I also don’t notice if you gain weight. I once had a girlfriend who put on like fifteen pounds for some reason. I think she was stressed about work or something. It never even occurred to me to pay attention to her expanding waistline. She was still as beautiful to me as ever.

The downside is that I don’t notice when you lose weight either.

So, I need to work on being more present for external factors like dress and appearance. I am very aware for internal stuff that you’re experiencing. Thanks to a shitload of therapy I’ve learned how to develop intimacy through paying attention to your feelings and junk. I’m present for you, baby! Now, let me turn on the Playstation and zone out while you do something that women do when their husbands are playing video games.

If you’re going to date me you’re going to have to love my purple striped shirt. Don’t worry, it looks nice. Yes, it’s been in front of other women who I was trying to impress. Yes I once spilled Ethiopian chicken all down the front. And yes, once it even came off in a heavy makeout session with a lawyer. And no, I didn’t see her “briefs.” Sorry, worst joke EVER.

Now I need to come up with universal second date shirt. Maybe the brown one.

—

If there was a poster child for embarrassing tales, I should be it. I give new meaning to the phrase embarrassing moments…Whether I’m clumsily falling on my ass, behaving like a star-struck teenager in front of a bit player on the Chicago Bears, or screaming, “Keanu Reeves is hot!” in a movie theater that has suddenly gone from loud action scene to dead silence, I’m your girl.

So I’m going to tell you a little story. With St. Patrick’s Day right around the corner, I figured that it’s time you learn about the other holiday. The holiday that falls the day BEFORE St. Patrick’s Day. The day my friends like to call, “Erin Go Bra-less,”   which dates back all the way to 2006.

For most of my life, my parents owned an Irish bar in the Chicago suburbs. We all worked there, especially on St. Patrick’s Day. So I made plans to party like a rock star the night before at the home bar.

The following is an excerpt from my  MySpace Blog  journal, the morning of St. Patrick’s Day 2006.

“Early this morning I woke up, home, in my bed, and naked. This may not seem strange at first, until we question how the hell I got there. Because at 6 am this morning, I had no fucking clue. So I looked out my window for my car. Thank God, it wasn’t there. So I didn’t drive.  But how did I get home?  I woke my brother up. Mark, my best friend, drove me home, I guess. SO I called him. And asked what the hell had happened. Apparently there was a great deal of shots pouring. I fell outside of the bar as my friends were carrying me out. They brought me home. Put me to bed, clothed. I suppose I have a tendency to nakify myself when I’m drunk, as my old roommates would probably remind me.    

All I know is I haven’t blacked out since my 21st. Someone needs to remind me that I’m not in college anymore. And I DEFINITELY can no longer hold my liquor the way I used to.   So now, it’s St. Patrick’s Day.  I’m  supposed to be waiting tables right now and sneaking pieces of corned beef. But instead I’m laying around in my pajamas hoping to God that I’ll be  OK  enough to eat that corned beef in 5 hours or at least work. I believe I’ve died and gone to hell. NEVER AGAIN.“

I felt like death warmed over. It was the hangover of a lifetime, and I really wanted to die.

When I went to find my favorite bra that evening, on my way into work, it was nowhere to be found. What my friend, Mark, failed to mention that morning was that I would not be able to locate my bra. Apparently, the night before the other ladies and I decided that it was Erin Go Bra-less, and we would all be removing our bras. I’m a bit on the busty side, and the shirt that I was wearing that night made it quite evident that I was, in fact bra-less…and not in a good way.

I proceeded to get stupid drunk(er), and finish the night without my memory. All because I had to work on St. Patrick’s Day, and I convinced my friends to party with me the night before.  Luckily, one of the other waitresses saw me getting shit-faced, pulled me aside, gave me her number, and said, “Call me tomorrow morning when you can’t work.” (Oh yes, I called her…and yet I still had to go in to work later that night.)

Early in the evening on St. Patrick’s Day, with a less-than-awesome bra, I finally made my way to the bar. As I arrived, I was greeted by an army of smirks and questions of, “How ya feeling today, Drunkles?” The other waitresses were all snickering at me as I walked back to the kitchen.

I walked in and my father was standing there, next to my black lacy bra, waiting for me. “Christine?” The only time my dad calls me by my full name is when he’s disappointed or angry. “Does this belong to you?” as he pointed at the bra.  I took in the image of my bra and my dad, and I hung my head.

“Yes…”

“I’m not going to ask how it got here. The ladies (waitresses) were going to hang it above the bar, Christine.” He shook his head at me in embarrassment.  “Your brother told me it was yours, and so I stopped them.” He just looked at me with those Dad eyes…and I looked back at him feeling every ounce of embarrassed. “Don’t. Let. It. Happen. Again.”

And I didn’t. At least not that he knows of.

——-

One of the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me was when I had a colonoscopy. I was having some issues in my “backyard” (rectum). And since  I’m a hypochondriac, I immediately scheduled an appointment with my internist, hoping he could ease my mind with a quick diagnosis or refer me to a specialist.

I met with him the next day, and after a (surprise) “backyard” exam, he referred me to a specialist, who, thankfully, did not give me second exam, but instead, scheduled me for a colonoscopy. Mmm.

The  best  part of a colonoscopy is that during the procedure you’re sound asleep and completely unaware of the violations being committed on your body. I remember drowsily waking after my procedure thinking, “I would be fully content, dying right now, in this peaceful slumber. Take me away…Calgon.”

The  worst  part is the prep for the procedure. The day before, you’re required to drink, what seems like, a barrel full of liquid laxative. The flavor was not unlike what ginger-flavored sewage water might taste like. It’s intended to “clean you out.” In fact, the directions warn, “Stay near a toilet! You will have diarrhea.” Directions like that…I’m gonna follow.

NASA Goddard Photo and Video

I chose to chase the vile liquid with Cherry Coke. It helped me…Not. One. Bit. It was disgusting. What it did help with was taking every crumb of food I’d consumed in the previous six years, that might have been trapped inside the wee crevices of my small intestine, and shot them out my backside with the force of the Discovery blast-off. Repeatedly. All day.
So, of course, I had to share my experience with my best friend.

I found Felicity’s most recent email, opened it, hit reply, and in graphic detail, described to her how my intestines were turning inside out, while simultaneously attacking other organs like a bengal tiger attacks it’s dinner.

I hit send and smiled at the thought of her simultaneously laughing and being grossed out.  Yes, I’m disgusting.

Have you ever experience one of those moments where your brain recognizes your error and screams, “STOP!”, but your body is still moving forward? That was one of those moments.

Instead of hitting ‘Reply’ on the mass email she had forwarded me, I had hit, ‘Reply ALL’!

Oh crap. OH CRAP!!! Her family and friends and our  mutual  friends will see what I wrote about the sad state of my bowels! I mentally scanned through a list of our college friends. No! No! NO!!!

In my panic, I pulled up her email again, clicked ‘Reply ALL’ and quickly typed in the subject line, “Please ignore the previous email from me. Sorry.” and hastily clicked send.

Oh crap. OH CRAP!!! Telling someone to ignore your email is like saying, “Read Me. Read Me. Exclusive information in here!”

Needless to say, over the next hour I received a number of emails guffawing at my error and giving me “wise” words of advice to comfort my bowels.

The really painful thing is that I went through  all  that to find out that I only had your regular, every day, garden-variety hemorrhoids.

Lesson: Be careful when hitting ‘Reply All’.

Source:  dreamjerky.tumblr.com  via  Felicity  on  Pinterest

I’m at that stage of a new exercise and nutrition cycle where the food deficit plus the hard running is almost to difficult to maintain in my body or mind. But it’s time. Even though I biked my ass off this year I ate whatever the hell I wanted. I haven’t moved much since the cold set in. So now I’m in the process of breaking sine bad habits.

I’m currently on the subway racking my brain to bring the funny. I can’t hardly stand much less find the energy to entertain you.

But let’s try anyway.

The last time I went to the grocery store I vowed to pick up one item that is embarrassing and not feel shame about it. I wasn’t sure what it was going to be. I figured I would surprise myself. In the past if I was picking something like four bags of SunChips (one for each flavor) I would quickly put them in my cart and spread them out so that at a cursory glance it didn’t look like I’m mega carb loading on crap.

But the SunChips weren’t on sale. None of the chips were. That’s the bummer in Chicago. Food is never on sale.

That time, however, candy was on special.

First I love how there’s such a thing as “Theatre Candy” – these are the boxes of stuff like Mike & Ike’s, Milk Duds, and Sugar Babies. First, I had a subscription to a high end theatre here. Whip out a box of Reeces Pieces during the first act of a Mamet play and it’ll sound like you’re a new ager playing a rain stick. Everyone around you will be thinking, “Well, I never!” and all that other high class “Screw you!” language. The actors will even fire a look in your direction. Then you have to pretend it wasn’t you but the dude that came in jeans one row in front.

I know the grocery store really means “Movie Candy” but it doesn’t sound as debonair.

Movie candy was 10/$10. That’s a deal, people.

So I chose the worst movie candy of them all. A candy guaranteed to offend and delight equally. I estimate 70% of this world would choose to not have this candy even in the same room as other candy.

Yes, I’m talking about Good & Plenty. I don’t understand why everyone hates these delicious candy treats. There is no middle ground. You either despise them or love them. And despite candy we can all agree sucks (Whoppers, Mounds bars, Popcorn Jelly Bellies) nothing is more heated than a Good & Plenty argument. They’re the brussel sprout of candy.

Well, even though I love them I’m normally ashamed to put them in my basket (I legitimately hide them under the spinach), tonight I walked proud. I put them on the top with an air about me that were to suggest, “No, I’m not going to the opera tonight. I’m heading home to make dinner and this is my dessert. Yes, Good & Plentys are my dessert!”

While this is a relative small victory for my self-esteem, it did have an affect on my mood. I was all bummed out at the beginning of this post. Now I’m ready to take on the world, one white and pink candy at a time.

This post was remarkably silly.

I was embarrassed to be wearing my bluetooth headset while grocery shopping. Now, had I been having a conversation with an actual person, I would have felt more comfortable. But all I was doing was listening to a podcast. Sometimes I bring my headphones with me because, in my mind, it’s socially acceptable to be wearing headphones in public. But having a bluetooth headset is geeky and lame.

A few things. First, nobody is looking at me. On Sunday afternoons it’s a couples’ shopping experience. I was in a trendy part of Chicago and it was a lot of guys pushing strollers while their wives held up scraps of paper while shelf-scanning. I saw many women in sweatpants and other “fell out of bed” gear. This is something my sister has never understood about Chicago. That women can walk around so casually without normal clothing. She lives in the West Village in NYC, however, where the most beautiful people in this country congregate.

The other piece is that even if a woman (I don’t seem to care about judgment from men) does pay attention to me, the odds she’s judging me as lame is minimal. I’ve learned that people think a lot less about (not of) me that I would have expected. Everyone has their insecurities we think are scarlet letters for the world to shame. It almost never happens. If I see an overweight woman I don’t think ugly thoughts or pity or love or whatever other judgments I might have. I just keep walking because I don’t care what she weighs. I hardly notice.

I’m sure the same is for me and my dopey bluetooth. I just kept thinking that some beautiful goddess will stop me and ask where the gourd aisle is and then I’ll quickly rip the electronic from my ear and stick it in my sweater-coat. Somehow I’ll get her approval because I’m not a geek.

I know we all have some version of this. Something we hide away to keep people from seeing us as we are.

Even though I dealt with a little embarrassment internally, I kept it in my ear during my shopping. I did take it out while at the deli counter because I didn’t want the meat cutter ladies to think I was a jerk barking orders while talking to somebody more important. Same thing when they were ringing up the totals.

There are things that screw me up a little that keeps this craziness alive and well. I was doing some work at one of our offices yesterday and a young woman walked in to do something. We chatted a bit about nothing, and as I was leaving she said, “You have great style – I like the whole ‘look’.”

This is funny because I have no ‘look.’ I wear a solid color t-shirt, jeans, and cheap Aldo shoes. I wear the same Banana Republic sweater coat everywhere I go. So, to hear that out of nowhere was flattering. Maybe she was flirting or just being nice, or maybe even lying. Who knows? Either way, it’s comments like that where I start paying attention to my looks.

What’s important is that I notice when I run those patterns of, “Uh oh – they won’t like me if they saw/knew/heard X.” That’s about me and my shame. The truth is though that some people will judge you and run away based on who you are. But, it’s been my experience that the ones who love you almost never run. And, if they do – screw ’em. They were just a big fatso with a terrible haircut anyway.

photo credit: Leonard John Matthews via photopin cc