NO BUTTS ON WHERE I’VE DRAWN A LINE
Having been confident I’d mastered the art of handling embarrassment, I was bummed to find out I was wrong
HOW embarrassment.
Ironically, it’s kind of embarrassing that I still say that.
But it turns out that when it comes to red faces (how many more 80s TV icons can I reference here?), I’m head of the class.
Not only do I have a high tolerance for humiliating situations, I’m also really good at placing others in them too.
Which is possibly why my daughter refused my request to be a parent helper in her Year 4 excursion.
I was a little bit shocked. It’s not often I raise my hand for these things anymore … I’ve done my time. I’ve had animal poop flung on me during a school visit to Fleay’s and supervised a Year 1 maths group whilst heavily hungover (it was the day after Melbourne Cup, stop judging and start applauding that I even showed up).
Besides, the excursion was on her actual birthday and I’m basically still her idol so … wtf?
As much as I was relieved to not have to go (dozens of kids, a winding bus trip and physical exertion do not make my ideal day), I was a little miffed when she told me the reason I wasn’t welcome is because I embarrass her.
This from the child who once told the chemist I had just farted. When I didn’t. I swear. But it’s impossible to deny an accusation of flatulence, you just look guiltier. It’s better to say “excuse me”, then walk out and leave your child behind. Possibly forever.
Anyway, she said it’s not what I do, it’s what I say. All those funny stories about her are apparently not so hilarious when you’re the nine-year-old butt of them.
While I have taken her input on board, I honestly believe that handling embarrassment is one of the most important skills any child – or adult – can master.
Look at Donald Trump (I dare you), that guy cannot handle being a laughingstock. Every time he suffers humiliation, there’s a chance we’ll suffer annihilation.
If you can’t laugh at yourself, there’s just too much in life to be afraid of. For every new situation there’s a high probability you’ll embarrass yourself. If the safest route is to opt out, you’re missing out.
That’s not to say that I plan on purposefully shaming my children. Although I do have a fantastic stockpile saved for their 18th birthdays.
While I don’t enjoy being embarrassed, thanks to my own parents I have a high tolerance. If you saw my mother dance you’d understand.
As for my father, the first time I ever went on a date, we came back to our house and Dad clapped me on the back before recoiling to say: “Ew, you’re so sweaty, Ann!” Such a turn-on for my 16-year-old boyfriend.
But that which did not kill me has made me stronger.
Friends call me #nofilter because there’s not much I – or they – can say that concerns me.
It’s made me a better reporter because I’m not embarrassed to front up and meet new people or even ask dumb questions. (Yes, there IS such a thing as a dumb question … also a dumb answer.)
In fact, after my daughter’s rejection, I started to wonder whether I could even be embarrassed anymore.
And, of course, a situation immediately presented itself
whereby I wasn’t just humiliated but genuinely mortified.
I was at the races for my own birthday when, from a distance, I spotted a familiar face. My gastroenterologist.
Without getting bogged down with details, I had to pay him a professional visit recently. And now, having had a few drinks, I decided he would love to see my actual face for a change. See? No shame.
We were casually chatting and all was well until a friend appeared over my shoulder, holding up her phone and asking my doctor: “So, how was Ann’s butt?”
Now this is a guy I have to go back and see in three weeks. And while I have no qualms acknowledging his existence, I do recoil acknowledging just how, err, deeply he knows me.
Poor guy. He answered with an ‘ok’ symbol, which really could be misconstrued in a number of unfortunate ways. I quickly spun around and shut down my friend. Not before she posted the exchange on Instagram, however.
Turns out, I do have a line. And it’s drawn at my butt.