Shame Week #1 :: What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?

I was 18. I was a few months into my second attempt to get me some A Levels, after having dropped out the first time round. In my English Literature class there was a girl called Marie.

Marie had long, beyond shoulder-length, slightly wavy, jet-black hair, light blue eyes and the most dazzling mouth a human being ever had. She wore a black duffle coat. I had a debilitating crush on her. I adored her. I really adored her.

It was December and the one decent friend I had made, Kyle, who was considerably more popular than I was, had been invited out with a bunch of people from my class. He asked me if I’d like to come along. Marie would be there.

No one knew about my crush on Marie, but anyone who cared could have easily guessed. I was particularly bumbling and inhuman in her company. If I had ever dared speak, I would have stammered like a pneumatic drill. If I had ever dared catch her eye for more than a second, my brain would have eloped with my heart and I think I might very well have passed away from longing.

However, I was going through a stage of trying to force myself into difficult situations - which is how came to find myself at college in the first place - so I said yes.

I was living with Keith at the time in Dartford. On the night of the get-together, which was a Thursday, Keith’s Dad popped round to our house. I told him I was going out with some friends (a slight exaggeration) and I told him about Marie. ‘I feel sick,’ I told him. ‘I feel physically ill. I don’t think I can do it.' He rolled his eyes in good-natured mocking. 'I’m not going.’

I wonder how different my life would be now if I had stuck to my guns, or if Keith’s Dad had been a less caring person and had said nothing. Instead he gave me a little speech about missed opportunities. ‘You never know what might happen,’ he said. ‘You should only regret the things you do in life, never the things you don’t do,’ he said. ‘There is nothing worse than missed opportunity,’ he said. ‘Believe me. Come on, I’ll give you a lift. Drink some milk. It’ll settle your stomach.’

I drank half a pint of milk and took him up on his offer of a lift. He dropped me a few doors away from the pub and wished me good luck. I still felt sick with worry and shame and fear. As he drove off, I considered turning round and walking away. But I didn’t. I went into the pub and joined the group of around ten students who were all standing together in a large loose cluster. Kyle was there. Marie was there, wearing her duffle coat. I got myself a drink.

It was awful. They were most of them a year younger than me but they all had so much more confidence. I felt completely removed from them, like I was another species. They were from a species that chatted with ease, and laughed and joked and were perfectly comfortable with one another. I was from a species that shuffled around in the background, maybe even in another dimension, unable to think of anything, not a single damn thing I could say that might connect me to them.

At one point, a guy called John turned to me and attempted conversation. But he soon gave up because I was useless at it. I was still feeling nauseous too. Seriously so. I drank more lager. It would pass.

Marie was talking to two other girls whose names I can’t recall. I was loitering behind them, a really uncomfortable smile glued to my uncomfortable face, when Kyle took a break from enjoying himself and asked me how I was.

‘Fine,’ I said.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking genuinely concerned. ‘You look really pale.’

‘I just feel a little….’

And then it happened.

It wasn’t exactly projectile vomiting, but it came out with quite a violent spurt. Kyle saw it coming and managed to hop back out of the way. Marie wasn’t so lucky. Most of it landed in the hood of her duffle coat, but some of it made it onto her head where it clung to her beautiful black hair like rancid clotted cream.

Amidst the gasps and emotional chaos of the next few moments, one wag – I believe his name was Nick – captioned the moment with the following words: ‘Premature ejaculation.’

That didn’t help.

On the plus side, I finally got to speak to Marie. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, milk sick on my breath and my face hotter than the sun. ‘I think I might have an ulcer.’

She didn’t say anything in response however. She couldn’t actually speak because her mouth – her gorgeous, sexy mouth – was still wide open in abject, absolute horror. Frozen in this portrait of disgust, her friends tentatively took hold of her arms and rushed her off to the toilet to clean her up.

By the time she came out again, I had shrugged off one or two feeble protests, ignored another heartless gag or two, and left.

What’s more, I never went back to college.

Ever.

…

Although this wasn't the last time I vomited on a woman - there was also this time - it was by far the most embarrassing. Plus it had far more important consequences. If it hadn't happened, for example, I might have stayed at college. I might have finished my studies and gone on to university. I might have met all kinds of people at university who might have loved me and nurtured me and encouraged me, and by now, I might have been King of the World. Or something. But never mind. I'm here. And I can't see a duffle coat without wincing.

...

So. What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done? Share your shame in the comments. Or if you fancy running with the shame, meme-style, and posting something on your own blog, then if you could let me know, that would be truly awesome.

Thanks.