My Face Is Still Red

We all do something embarrassing every once in a while, don’t we?

***Blurting out one too many hallelujahs while singing the Hallelujah Chorus.

***Sending a private, very personal, email  to “Reply to all” instead of “Reply.”

**Making a noise you should not have made any time you’re not alone. I think you know what I’m talking about.

Why is it that we forget many of our wonderful days and some of our triumphs, too, but we remember those red face moments for decades, maybe until the day we die.

*  *  *

I’ve already told you about one of my most embarrassing moments — squirting mustard on a perfect stranger.

And then there was the time I turned a tape recorder on during a murder trial, after the judge had issued an order not the record any testimony.  I tried to record a witness but instead of pushing the “record” button I pushed the “play” button.

[Oh, cut me some slack. I was still in my twenties.]

In my defense, let me say this: I wasn’t present when the judge issued the order and I said to myself,  Self, if he hasn’t told you personally, his order doesn’t apply to you.

I was wrong about that.

The judge interrupted the trial  and asked me, right then and there, if I had recorded anything the witness had said.  I said, “No, sir.”

[I had tried to record it, I admit that, but that is not what he asked, people.]

The trial was in Brunswick, GA, and the reporters from Charlotte [I was reporting for The Charlotte News.] were staying at the same hotel. The judge was  staying there, too.  At night, we’d all get together and have a beer or two. That night the judge told me: “I was going to put you in jail, but I saw how red your face was and I thought you had been punished enough.”

* * *

About this time every year, at Christmastime, I am reminded of another one of my most embarrassing moments.

I was a sophomore at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, working part-time as a student assistant in the UNC Sports Information Office.  My wife, Donna,  was a secretary at the UNC School of Nursing. We had  married in June and now she was pregnant.   Money was tight and about to get a lot tighter.

My office was going to have a Christmas party and I was told there would be a gift for me.  That meant I had to have gifts for the others, gifts we couldn’t afford. But what choice did I have? I spent a good part of a week’s pay  –I made $1 an hour — buying nice presents for my boss and two co-workers.

I showed up for the party, wrapped presents in hand.  Only, it turned out, I wasn’t invited.

They gave me a bottle of shaving lotion, wished me “Merry Christmas,” and I left, red-faced.

Fifty-six years later I am still embarrassed at the memory.

Coming Monday:  Tomorrow Is Not Promised