I'm Not Too Old to Embarrass Myself

Jan Flynn

Sep 23

3 min read

I am too old to worry about it much

“Embarrassment is where growth happens.” — Jaylen Brown

According to that tenet, I should have attained Exalted Being status by now. For a person who manages to come across as confident and competent, I have a weird talent for screwing up.

In exquisitely mortifying ways.

Like the time I attended an important networking event at a packed, trendy restaurant, dressed to impress in a voluminous skirt of tissuey silk, au courant at the time. I sailed out of the ladies’ room ready to wow whoever, when I felt an odd draft at my back.

That was when someone quietly pointed out that the entire back of my skirt was caught in the waistband of my pantyhose.

Or the time I was dining at an Armenian restaurant and made a big deal of congratulating the owner on the quality of his food — which I should know, I assured him, having married into an Armenian-American family — and only on my way back to the car did I notice the tablespoon-sized splodge of baba ghanoush on my blouse.

In my acting days, the gaffes I made at auditions are beyond count, along with the dimwitted remarks that seemed to fall out of my mouth when confronted with Famous People.

Harder to countenance are the times when my flubs hurt someone’s feelings. Or when I let down those who were counting on me, however inadvertently.

“Life is full of screwups. You’re supposed to fail sometimes. It’s a required part of the human existence.” — Sarah Dressen

Embarrassment 101 has been a core part of my curriculum here in Earth School. It’s a course I’ve had to repeat a lot.

The worst part? Not so much the initial realization of the blunder, however agonizing, but the aftermath.

The burning innards, the self-condemnation consuming my inner monologue for days or weeks, seeping into my self-concept like slow poison. No matter that the rest of the world moved on; there I’d be, stuck in invisible quicksand up to my blushing neck.

The fear of another such glitch could be nearly paralyzing, which only set me up for more cringe-inducing snafus. Not great for the whole confident-and-competent thing.

There’s a reason they call it a shame spiral.

Yet I have seen evidence of growth.

Because recently I screwed up, royally. It was a breathlessly dumb mistake involving scheduling and time zones.

I dwell in the American Mountain Time Zone, where I am forever getting it backwards as to which end of the country is either an hour behind me or two hours ahead. This confusion persists despite my having lived here, off and on, for nearly 20 years.

That’s no excuse. I’ll pass over the details and just get to the part where the VIP I was supposed to interview for an upcoming podcast showed up, online, right on time.

I did not, because I had made what amounted to a three-hour miscalculation. On an interview I’d spent days researching and preparing for.

By the time I’d discovered my mistake and scrambled to set up my recording stuff, the VIP politely but firmly indicated no interest in continuing the effort.

Like, ever.

Ouch.

Was I aghast at myself? Mortified? Appalled at how I’d failed to deliver the goods to my team? You bet.

“It’s a combination of life being unpredictable, and you being super dumb.” — Aaron Sorkin

But here’s the growth part. While I allowed myself a dip into the slimy pool of chagrin, I didn’t sink to the bottom. I didn’t keep wallowing.

I pulled myself out, literally showered off, and determined to enjoy the rest of my wild and precious day.

“The rate at which a person can mature is directly proportional to the embarrassment he can tolerate.” — Douglas Engelbart

Once I’d apologized to the VIP (who didn’t answer) and to my team (who were lovely), that was that. Some mistakes can be corrected, and some can’t.

This one couldn’t, but as mistakes go, it was eminently survivable. Nobody was killed, maimed, or defrauded, only annoyed. I was embarrassed, one of my favorite emotions not to feel, but feel it I did, and that didn’t kill me either.

So I took the dog for a hike and delighted in watching her fetch the same stick from the river over and over and over again, a lesson in obdurate joy. And then I bought myself the bamboo-rayon pajamas I’ve been wanting.

Jan M. Flynn

I'm Not Too Old to Embarrass Myself

I am too old to worry about it much

According to that tenet, I should have attained Exalted Being status by now. For a person who manages to come across as confident and competent, I have a weird talent for screwing up.

In exquisitely mortifying ways.

Like the time I attended an important networking event at a packed, trendy restaurant, dressed to impress in a voluminous skirt of tissuey silk, au courant at the time. I sailed out of the ladies’ room ready to wow whoever, when I felt an odd draft at my back.

That was when someone quietly pointed out that the entire back of my skirt was caught in the waistband of my pantyhose.

In my acting days, the gaffes I made at auditions are beyond count, along with the dimwitted remarks that seemed to fall out of my mouth when confronted with Famous People.

Harder to countenance are the times when my flubs hurt someone’s feelings. Or when I let down those who were counting on me, however inadvertently.

Embarrassment 101 has been a core part of my curriculum here in Earth School. It’s a course I’ve had to repeat a lot.

The worst part? Not so much the initial realization of the blunder, however agonizing, but the aftermath.

The burning innards, the self-condemnation consuming my inner monologue for days or weeks, seeping into my self-concept like slow poison. No matter that the rest of the world moved on; there I’d be, stuck in invisible quicksand up to my blushing neck.

The fear of another such glitch could be nearly paralyzing, which only set me up for more cringe-inducing snafus. Not great for the whole confident-and-competent thing.

There’s a reason they call it a shame spiral.

Yet I have seen evidence of growth.

Because recently I screwed up, royally. It was a breathlessly dumb mistake involving scheduling and time zones.

I dwell in the American Mountain Time Zone, where I am forever getting it backwards as to which end of the country is either an hour behind me or two hours ahead. This confusion persists despite my having lived here, off and on, for nearly 20 years.

That’s no excuse. I’ll pass over the details and just get to the part where the VIP I was supposed to interview for an upcoming podcast showed up, online, right on time.

I did not, because I had made what amounted to a three-hour miscalculation. On an interview I’d spent days researching and preparing for.

By the time I’d discovered my mistake and scrambled to set up my recording stuff, the VIP politely but firmly indicated no interest in continuing the effort.

Like, ever.

Ouch.

Was I aghast at myself? Mortified? Appalled at how I’d failed to deliver the goods to my team? You bet.

But here’s the growth part. While I allowed myself a dip into the slimy pool of chagrin, I didn’t sink to the bottom. I didn’t keep wallowing.

I pulled myself out, literally showered off, and determined to enjoy the rest of my wild and precious day.

Once I’d apologized to the VIP (who didn’t answer) and to my team (who were lovely), that was that. Some mistakes can be corrected, and some can’t.

This one couldn’t, but as mistakes go, it was eminently survivable. Nobody was killed, maimed, or defrauded, only annoyed. I was embarrassed, one of my favorite emotions not to feel, but feel it I did, and that didn’t kill me either.

So I took the dog for a hike and delighted in watching her fetch the same stick from the river over and over and over again, a lesson in obdurate joy. And then I bought myself the bamboo-rayon pajamas I’ve been wanting.

They feel like being wrapped in a whisper-soft hug.

After all, I’ve lived long enough to have embarrassed myself many, many times. I’ve survived them all. And I’m certain I will again.

Maybe I’m finally ready to move on to Embarrassment 201.

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