Taking the Girls for a Drive

There’s a new surgical procedure called Insta Breast that allows women to try out temporary breast implants. The procedure can take as little as twenty minutes and cost $2,500-$3,500. A woman will have twenty-four hours to live with the breast and come to a decision. It’s like test driving a car with you wearing the airbags.

For some women the Insta Breast can be a confidence boost for attending special occasions like a wedding or high school reunion. Although, at your 50^th high school reunion it can disconcerting to watch a fellow classmate hunched over, like Quasimodo, because the breasts she’s test driving are so big and heavy they’re weighing her down. Because she’s bent in half all conversation is conducted face to navel. Luckily, she’s pinned her name tag to the back of her sweater for all to read. You read the name. Willie? No, wait, that can’t be, you read it again. Oh, it’s Millie. It’s hard reading upside down.

For some women Insta Breast can be a confidence boost, but for me it’s a dye job. I have what I call my ‘dentist dyed hair.’ Before a dental appointment I get my hair dyed. Why? The dentist and hygienist always stand over me and have a clear view of my head. I don’t want them to see that my hair is the same color as my teeth. I don’t care if they see plaque buildup, but they should not and will not see my gray hair. My vanity speaks from the dental chair.

Why, if I knew when I was going to kick the bucket I’d make an appointment with my stylist the day before to get my ‘death dyed hair.’ I don’t want to be viewed and have people whisper, “It’s a shame she let herself go; didn’t even bother to touch up her roots.” The mortification! If I wasn’t already dead, I’d die from the embarrassment. Mourners should not and will not see my gray hair. My vanity speaks –even from the grave.

Table For One

Table for One

Going to the movies alone isn’t so bad. You sit in the back and no one sees you in the dark, scarfing down popcorn.

Going out to eat alone is different. In a bright, crowded restaurant everyone sees you sitting alone at a table for two. The hostess emphasis you’re alone and will be alone the entire meal when she whisks away the other place setting.

Before cell phones one would arm themselves with dining out alone armor: books, magazines and newspapers, anything to avoid stares of pity from fellow diners. Today, with cell phones, we no longer play the charade. As long as we have our phone – I ask – are we ever really alone?

You’re one at a table for two, but thanks to your phone you can be eating (virtually) with 22 friends, family and followers. These people salivate over the chocolate cake photo you posted on Instagram. Your followers like your extra cheeses pizza and wish they weren’t lactose intolerant. Your mother sends a text, insulted because you ate all the veggies on your plate and you never eat hers. Why not? Your priest (who you didn’t know followed you) pops up and makes you feel guilty for being in a restaurant Sunday morning rather than church. He’ll pray for your soul. Your cardiologist, who is not playing golf pipes in with, “A double bacon cheeseburger? Really? You’ve got to be kidding me! Put it down and back away! Now! Eat that and you’ll wind up back on my table.” Your sister zeros in on the sweater you’re wearing and demands to know, “Is that the sweater you borrowed and told me you lost? You’re such a liar! Give it back! I never could trust you! And mom likes you best!

You’re never alone when dining (virtually) with the masses of people in your phone.

As for me, the best way to eat alone is to disconnect and read a book; at least the characters won’t badger you.

Public Humiliation

We’ve all had embarrassing moments. My most recent one was forgetting to brush my teeth before I left the house in the morning and then wondering why everybody I spoke to kept backing away. At least this time people didn’t laugh and point the way my classmates in sixth grade did when my skirt got stuck in my underwear. They all pointed and laughed as I walked to my seat. I guess I should be happy it happened before social media where it would be plastered for the world to see. Social media takes embarrassment to a whole new level.

Sometimes we’re embarrassed not for ourselves, but for others – ‘second hand embarrassment.’ You ever get embarrassed for a comedian dying on stage? You feel bad (squirming in your seat) knowing they know they’re bombing. Silence to a comedian is worse than a tomato in the face.

As part of a couple, if your spouse tells a joke and it falls flat, the embarrassment falls also on you – ‘second hand embarrassment;’ embarrassment by relation.

In a house where the bathroom is off the kitchen the stage is set for embarrassment. Tell me the genius who thought the kitchen/ bathroom combo was a good idea. It’s not. You go to a friend’s house for dinner and halfway through the meal someone dashes to the bathroom. As you’re chewing your steak you’re now being serenaded by moans and groans. You wince when you hear grunting and noises heard only from animals in the wild.  You applaud when you hear the flush, but your glee is short lived as there’s a round two. This round comes with cursing and air freshener being dispensed. Finally, the boxer emerges looking weary, but triumphant. Nobody acknowledges what went on in there. You keep eating and gradually realize you smell more than what’s on your plate. The smells wafting out from the bathroom and mingling with your food have created a rancid, overpowering stench of a cloud. People lose their appetite. Nobody wants to eat steak that smells like that. You gag with every bite. Guest offer excuses and make a hasty retreat. You, the hostess watch people run to their car and think – how many friends did this cost me? Some embarrassing moments come at a high price.