Shame on me

“Are you ready to order?” asked the server. It was our first time at a restaurant in months and everything looked tempting to me. Even the ketchup looked good.

“I’d like the fish tacos,” I said. “But what kind of tortillas do they come with? I’m gluten-free.”

“They come with corn tortillas,” she said. “But we can also do them as lettuce wraps.”

“I’m kind of feeling the corn tortillas,” I said.

“The lettuce wraps are healthier,” she said, matter-of-factly. I raised my eyebrows at my husband across the table.

“I’ll have the corn tortillas, thanks,” I replied.

She took my husband’s order and left.

“I’m not sure, but I think I’ve just been menu-shamed,” I said. He laughed. “Is that a thing?” “Apparently, it is now,” I said.

I had never actually been menushamed before and I wondered if this was a new trend like the dog-shaming and laundry-shaming that I’d seen online. In the past few weeks I had also been home haircut-shamed, manicure-shamed, and mom jeanshamed (arguably, that one was deserved).

But then I remembered back when my kids were younger, I was carpool-shamed by the kids for being late for pick-up, snack food-shamed by the kids for buying fake Doritos, and bathrobe-shamed for driving in my bathrobe. The last one was courtesy of the police department, which got the award for best-shaming without a warrant.

Two days later they shamed me again for driving with a cup of coffee on the roof of my car. I’m not sure what that one would be called. Maybe just stupid mom-shaming. Of course, no one called it shaming then. They just called it rude.

Alas, I, also, have done my fair share of shaming. I FaceTime-shamed my parents when they talked to me and pointed the phone at the ceiling fan for 10 minutes. I drugstore-shamed my husband when he brought home Anusol, for hemorrhoids, instead of Ambesol for gum pain. And I online-shopping-shamed my friend when she bought a new dress on the internet and it fit perfectly ... on her cat.

Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, I deliberated the consequences of ordering a slice of peanut-butter chocolate cake for dessert. Would the server steer me toward the fruit plate instead? Would she take it one step further and call into question my entire menu-ordering strategy? I was strong, but I didn’t know if I had the fortitude to withstand a second, grand, menu-shaming.

As we waited for our food to arrive, the server stopped at our table with our unsweetened iced teas. My husband grabbed for a sugar packet, ripped it open, and poured it into his glass. I looked at him with my mouth agape.

“What are you doing?” I said. “You never put sugar in your iced tea.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes I do.”

“No, you don’t. We’ve been married 28 years. I know how you take your iced tea and you don’t ever put sugar in it.”

He gave me a look.

“I think I’ve just been sugar-shamed,” he said.

“That’s not shaming,” I said. “That is making an observation.”

“What’s the difference?” he said. I shrugged. “It’s only shaming when it happens to me.”

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