What makes you blush?

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I still reply it in my mind.

Horrible.  Stupid.  Lame.  But that's the way public restrooms are.  I rejoice in the empty public restroom, but how often does it stay that way?  Spying between the cracks.  Maybe even ducking to check for feet.  Listening carefully for sounds.  Nobody there?  Hurry!  Into the stall to paper the seat and do your business before anyone enters, except...  The paper wouldn't come loose.

I spun and spun.  It was full roll, but I couldn't find the end!  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  Somebody enters and goes into the handicapped stall.  Spin, spin, scrabble and spin.  Where's the frigging end?  I gave up.  I left the stall and futzed around at the sink.  The other other stall had some fat woman trickling in little bursts and shifting her tiny feet stuffed into tiny shoes on the tile floor.  I pretended I was busy.  I had to pee so badly, but I was too stupid to figure out the toilet paper!  Maybe it was because I had to pee.  I paced.  I listened for the sound of pants being lifted, and the door opened.  You walked in.

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry you asked me if I was going into that stall because what could I say but, "No."  I couldn't add that I was too stupid to figure out where the end of the roll was.  You went in.  The fat lady rolled out.  I ran in and held my breath from the stink while you spun the roll.  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  And cursing.  Cursing me.

I came out first and was washing my hands as fast as I could, but I wasn't fast enough.  You drip-dried and burst out of the stall like a gunslinger slapping open the doors to the cantina.  You saw me and your eyes narrowed in the mirror.  You faced my reflection and I blushed and blushed and blushed and thought, "Oprah waits for the handicapped stall because she likes it.  Maybe that's what I was doing.  Maybe that's it.  That's it.  I didn't even know.  How could I know?  Maybe I only decided at the last moment I should pee.  How do you know I was even in that stall?"  You knew.

"You could have told me.  That was awful, not telling me.  You let me go in there, and you knew.  You're horrible."

I'm horrible.  I know.  Public restrooms.  Horrible places that bring out the horribleness in me.  I can't talk in a public restroom.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, but I couldn't tell you.  I can't discuss anything bathroom-related, much less public bathroom-related.  I wish you hadn't been there.  I wish I had been able to talk.  I wish you had found the end of the paper the way I thought you would.  I wish you hadn't yelled at me and looked at me with such hate.  Such hate that twisted your face and haunts me to this day.  I wish I could let go, but I'm like that toilet paper: stuck in a loop.  I'm sorry, lady.  Forgive me.

Pageant Question: What is your most embarrassing moment?

I am the king of embarrassing moments.  Lord of putting my foot in my mouth.  Emperor of oopsies.  I've learned I need to ride out whatever I've done and let it take me where it will, though it doesn't mean I'm not still haunted.

Last night, for example, I was kept up by going into the wrong class earlier that day; don't worry, it was actually far worse than it sounds.  I was in Norton Hall, passing through on my way to the cafeteria for a bowl of mashed potatoes with gravy, when I glanced through the window of my physics classroom.  My professor was in there.  Students were in there.  Class had started fifteen minutes ago!  I thought I had all the time in the world; I mean, didn't I always go or mashed potatoes on Thursdays?  I had a routine, and what happened to it that I missed the start of class?  In a panic, I threw open the door and slid into a seat on the end as some kid was in my seat.  Hmm.  Some kid I didn't recognize.

"Matt?" said Professor Anderson.  "Are you in this class?  Aren't you in the next class?"  He frowned, and I knew what had happened.  Professor Anderson held two classes back to back, and I had the second.  I didn't know anybody in here.  My class didn't start for another hour.  "Ah, well, I may be mixing up my rosters.  Midterm craziness.  Where were we?"

I didn't move.  I didn't look at anyone, though I knew they were staring at me.  I felt my face burning up and I could barely breathe.  Ride it out, man.  I just had to let what I'd done take me where it would, which was here, taking notes, surrounded by strangers.  And I missed my afternoon mashed potatoes.

224

As Claudia was barfing into her handbag, she reflected on her life and was rather disappointed.  Women in their late 30s should not be barfing without the influence of the stomach flu or undercooked meat, yet here she was, shoulders hunched over her cheap, gold purse, trying not to barf so loudly that the cabbie would kick her out.

Pulling up to her apartment building, Claudia handed the cab driver a twenty with two fingers.  The ride only cost ten, but since all her money smelled like vomit, she thought he could use the tip.  Claudia fumbled with the door handle and slumped halfway out, knock-kneed in her short skirt and heels.

166

Sudden weakness drained her ability to stand and Carly felt her ankles and knees and hips fold as if from a distance.  She wanted to stop her descent, but could only manage a slightly slower collapse by brushing her arm against the wall.  Her stomach considered heaving out and her bowels considered opening up, but neither body rebellion took complete hold.  The movies always made swooning seem clean and glamorous, but the truth was sickening, hideous inevitability and enduring embarrassment.

114

Carole could feel their cruel eyes on her. It made her feet feel too big, her face too long, her mouth too wide, her clothes smelly and dirty and out of fashion. None of it was too true. Carole had rather large feet, but she was tall. Her face was made to appear too long because of her inappropriate haircut, or lack thereof. Her mouth was wide, but, though she didn't know it, it was one of her best features. Carole's clothes were, indeed, out of fashion. Under scrutiny, she was sweating and increasing her chances of smelliness. There was also a stain on the front of her shirt, but she hated to throw it away.

98

Being with others never became easier. They clung. Their smells lingered. Their faces hung behind closed eyes and their voices repeated and repeated. How many people were too many? It would depend on how the gathering went. One perceived misstep could linger, well, forever, as far as Mary knew. There were episodes from her elementary school days that still replayed on bad nights. She was getting better at recognizing when these moments were happening, though she was still powerless to stop them. Mary would know the instant it was over that it was an interaction that would haunt her.

65

It's not easy to live a happy life when your name is an anagram for "stupid and ugly". Especially when it wasn't an accident. Sandy Dug Tulip. That's me: Stupid and Ugly. It was probably my parents' unusual last name that lead them to the anagram server. It was probably drugs that made them actually name their baby so horrifically. The worst part? When I found out my little brother knew about it and I didn't. He told everyone. Although they tried to hide it behind excuses made for my parents and fake sympathy, even adults thought it was funny.

My brother's name is Mike. Jerk.