So when I first moved into my ward, I was invited to attend a new member dinner. At said function, I suppose to increase brotherly kindness and fellowshipping, everyone was required to tell their most embarrassing story. To be quite honest, I really had a difficult time thinking of a story to tell, not because I never do embarrassing things but because the humiliation I felt wasn't powerful enough to leave an indelible impression. This last week, however, I experienced the MOST meltingly humiliating situation I ever have before and believe ever will come in contact with. Here I am, therefore, to publish it. Makes sense, right?
I do need to preface my story with one fact: I love a man I work with. And no, not reall love him. Not in the sappy and romantic I-love-you-forever kind of a way. Mostly just in the WOW-you-are-attractive-and-I'm-single-and-you're-single-and-you-are-actually-kind-of-awkward-in-an-endearing-sort-of-way love him. So yes. Crush on a man. And here is how the most ultimately embarrassing situation of my life went down:
I was sitting at my desk, and for some reason unknown to me, I was REALLY struggling with boredom. My cubicle neighbor is narcoleptic, and so perhaps seeing him pleasantly bobbing away, mouth agape, launched me into a reverie of my own. I had previously made plans to go up to Baltimore to hang out with my narcoleptic co-worker at an art festival. I got to thinking. Cogitating. I began musing. "(Insert name of man I have a crush on) also lives in Baltimore. Why don't I invite him too?" Small smile, pat on the back, pleasantly pleased by my own wiliness. Then creased brow, concerned frown.
"But wait. I haven't seen him at work in a while. He mentioned he might be going on vacation? Maybe he is on vacation." Ponderous thinking. Pursed lips. Heavy sigh. Pause. Raised eyebrows. Eyes brightening.
"Why don't I just send him an e-mail inviting him to go with us? Like, a hair-flippingly flirty e-mail that if he gets before the art festival, GREAT. If not, he still has a hair-flippingly flirty e-mail to get back to after his vacation." Bingo. Once again, small smile, pat on the back, pleasantly pleased by my own wiliness. I set to working crafting a gem of an e-mail, figuratively flipping my hair and swaying my hips with every comma and period I employed. It was short. Sassy. And then I sent it. Brazen and confident, right?
Five seconds later, auto-reply: "(Insert name of man I have a crush on) is out of the office. If you need immediate assistance, please contact Christina Stanley."
My thoughts: "Ok cool. Not here. At least the ball is in his court now."
Not three seconds later, a second e-mail, (dare I say e-mail from DOOM) only this one is NOT an auto-reply, nor is it from the man I have a crush on. It is from Christina Stanley: "(Insert name of man I have a crush on) is having all of his e-mails forwarded to me. If you want to get in contact with him," she tells me, "try his gmail account."
And so I quite literally melted into my seat with complete and utter embarrassment. So much for being a plucky blonde, right? I was ratcheted off whatever confident peak I had previously reached and flung down into the gaping jaws of cavernous humiliation. I mentally kicked myself for all the hair-flipping and hip-swaying. TOO many commas. WAY too much sass.
And so what did I do after my initial visceral reaction? (Which was hysterical giggling, by the way.) I invited Christina Stanley to come with us, of course: "Oh excellent. Glad to keep you in the loop. You are welcome to come as well if you would like!"
Needless to say, it was just my narcoleptic friend and I at the art festival yesterday.