Life's Embarrassing Moments #324984

Yeah.  That's a random number, as such memorable moments of sheer embarrassment are infinite.

To this day, as a 42 year old man, I still carry around the guilt or red-face-inducing flubs of so many things from my many years -- that it's become something of a neurotic obsession.

Something random and seemingly unrelated will whisper in my ear, "remember that over-the-top embarrassing moment when..."

Some things have fallen into the category of a goofy memory -- no longer inspiring unrest or discomfort, while others still have the mighty power to make me feel bad right then and there -- years -- even decades after the original event.  What a thing is the human brain?

Well one which has been on my mind -- only because I intended to write about it some time ago -- is about to come to light.  It's one of the now-goofy ones which makes for a fun anecdote, not something which requires an immediate trip to my therapist.

One of my summer jobs back home -- during my college years (and I actually worked this job right after graduation for a few months -- before I moved to Minneapolis) was as a hotel housekeeper, for a hotel called The White House Inn.  It was a good gig, with good people in the higher-up positions.  And if there weren't many rooms, you could be done w/ your work day in a flash (they paid by room, of course -- not by the hour -- thus the faster you worked, the faster you went home).  I think it was the summer between my junior and senior years at college -- since my mountain bike played a large role in this story.

My younger brother and I went biking quite often in the rocky and sometimes steep terrain of Lead (that's in the Black Hills of South Dakota -- where I grew up).  And this summer was a good one (and if I recall, the summer I fully came out -- even beyond my initial "bi-sexual" label).  But I digress.

Anyway, it was an average day.  I rode my bike to work and was assigned my rooms.  It could be a nasty job, but I'll save some of those truly disgusting encounters for another time.

I went into one of my rooms and found a note from the folks who had obviously just checked out.  I don't recall the exact wording on the note, but it was something along the lines of,

"Someone left some filthy magazines in the nightstand drawer".

Well -- and here's where you'll want to stop reading -- if in fact you hold me in high regard as some sort of innocent, God-fearing creature --

Being someone who enjoys pornography, I was naturally intrigued.

I quickly opened the drawer to find two straight, hard-core porno magazines.  If I recall, one was a "Cheri" magazine (was that a thing?) and I don't remember what the other one was.

Now, being in a small town, I wasn't big on going out to buy magazines at our local convenience store (and they wouldn't have the gay ones I would prefer anyway).  And I had a limited collection from my 3 years in college.  So some new spank-material was not a bad thing.  Luckily, some of the hard-core straight mags have ample male exposure and actual climax shots.  This was long before the internet, folks, so this was some high quality material.

So I decided right then and there that I needed to find a way to smuggle this contraband from the hotel room and to my home -- following my day's work and on my bicycle no less.  I didn't carry a backpack or anything, so this was going to be a challenge.

First thing I did toss the note of course.

I then wrapped the magazines in several layers of trash bags.  They were clear, so this was ultimately pointless.  But I put them under a stack of towels in my cart.

As the day went on and I continued to clean pubes from the tubs and scrub the toilets, my mind was only on how best to make my end of the day exodus with these all-important magazines.

Luck!  I found a stack of magazines in the laundry room -- People, Us and other like-minded publications, left over by other hotel guests.  I asked the boss if I could take those home.  The answer was, "of course!"

Success!  So I loaded them up with the contraband and wrapped them in several layers of more garbage bags.

And most of you will know how awfully flimsy those hotel room trash-bags truly are -- so this was an uneasy effort to begin with.

The day ended and I mounted my bike, with this probably 8 magazine-high stack in these piss-poor garbage bags.  I balanced them all for a good while, but when I crossed the street while riding my bike, I came up on the curb.  There was no gradual slant to accommodate potential wheelchair-ridden citizens, so I tried to wheely my bike up over the curb, while still balancing my valuable parcel.

I didn't clear the curb, and smashed my front tire (bending the rim) into the cement.

Naturally, the already-delicate package flew from my hand (obviously I was steering with only one hand).  Upon landing on the sidewalk, the bags tore and split open (of course) and that stack of magazines -- including the deeply hidden gems I so desperately wanted to get home -- slid out in a pattern which can only be described as a perfectly fanned-out giant-sized deck of cards.

Luckily, it wasn't a heavily-traveled walkway, so I quickly snatched up the stack, but was now left with torn bags.  I don't recall how I managed to re-wrap them, but the bike tire was still sound enough to continue the ride home (a week later, while out on a ride, my tire went flat -- no doubt punishment for my sinful urges).

At any rate, I got my new magazines home and I'm sure I enjoyed them.  The People magazines, of course.  Ahem.

For years, my face would redden at the random remembrance of this caper.  Today, at my ripe old age, I'm finally able to let something like this go and simply laugh about it.

Looking back -- with who I am and the sometimes confidence I now have -- if I was who I am now, I would simply have told my boss, "Hey, I found these porno mags in one of the rooms.  Okay if I take them home?  Do you have a bag I could use?"

With age comes indifference to those around you, I guess.  Judge me.  I don't care (except when I do).

The bottom line is that I can finally let things like this roll off of me.  I don't have the time or energy to lend to these potentially guilt-laden memories.

I guess I should write about all of the rest of these embarrassing moments -- in an effort to vanquish them forever -- but I don't have enough life to live to accomplish such a feat.  Besides, I've no doubt got so many more to experience in the second half of my life.

I've won this battle, but I doubt I'll ever win the war.