True Story: My body fails me in public situations.
If I can split my pants, trip, laugh till I tee tee in front of large groups of people, I will.
True Story: I’m a great faller.
I fall so much, I don’t even notice. This, of course, does not stop other people from noticing.
1) As a freshman in high school I was at a “Senior’s party”. People were out in the open garage smoking, etc… I walk across the garage headed toward the door to the house to warm up/go to the bathroom… Whatever reason to not stand there by myself not knowing what to say to people. I slipped in an oil spot on the garage floor. SPLAT.
In my head: Oh, Lord, here we go.
Now this shouldn’t be a big deal. At most, people should try to help you up and say, “are you alright”. But this is high school and people suck… So for the rest of the evening and all the next week at school some older girls, excuse me, bitches, pretended to fall whenever they were around me… Awesome…
2) One of the many times I fell down the stairs at home growing up, I landed at my Mom’s feet.
Mom: Now that’s just stupid. You’re grounded.
3) Walking across campus in Montana on icy grounds with Pump (just a friend at the time) and some other schoolmates, I fell. I mean really fell, and got right back up and kept talking. They all stopped and were like, “wait… Are you okay”?
I was fine, and annoyed at their concern. You see, my story I was passionately telling was WAY more important than my fall. Everything I say is REALLY important.
More examples of this ol’ body embarrassing me:
1) I got my “monthly” in class unexpectedly in 8th grade. This is really cool. Thank God it was fall weather and I was able to wrap my jacket around my waist and go ask the teacher permission to go to the bathroom.
Sidenote: Why do teachers make you so terrified to ask permission to leave the room. Damn it. I’m pissed now. I think they are the reason for half of my nick names through the years.
The greatest part about that day in 8th grade was that the teacher, whom subtlety was apparently non-existent, got up as I was leaving the room and Lysoled my chair.
There are many of these incidences I could bore you with. I will get to the point.
In 8th grade one evening I was hanging outside a friend’s house with some girlfriends and “older boys” (high school boys). What were our parents thinking? None of them are good. I don’t care who their parents are. They are all walking hormone- crazed, want-to-be, sex-machines.
So, I’m doing what I do best, probably trying to bum a cigarette and be funny (yes, I was that one). Someone said something hilarious and I lean back, dying laughing and you guessed it… I farted.
I said it. FART. I disagree with many southern belles. I don’t think that is a dirty word. Maybe it’s because I am the mother of a man-child.
True Story: In some circles, still today, I am known as Toot and Fartin Martin.