Humiliation Abounds

Have you ever felt embarrassed for someone?

You know, that feeling that you get whenever you witness something so truly atrocious and humiliating that you project on to yourself the feeling of shame and embarrassment that SHOULD be plaguing the person actually living it? But nine times out of ten they’re oblivious to the fact that they should even be embarrassed by what they’re doing thus making it a million times worse…for YOU.

As I tend to be a pretty compassionate person this sorta thing seems to happen to me often.

For instance, when I used to teach dance classes some of my students would downright humiliate themselves by botching the choreography up so horrendously that I couldn’t help but wish it would just stop. Like now. I mean, you’re cute and all, but that only get’s you so far. And it was particularly painful when the students were out of the “adorably uncoordinated” age bracket and yet still pursuing a dance career when they NEVER should have. “Umm…you’re almost 30. And I’m cringing for you. Please stop that.”

Or any one of these auditions from the newest season of American Idol. (Especially the guy at :20. Someone please inform him that he is NOT the lead singer from Live.)



And question? Do any of these people have family members or loved ones that could maybe say “Hey. I love ya and all but you’re really not so talented in the whole singing arena. Maybe we skip the nationally televised and heavily criticized auditions and save you a little dignity, whadya say?”

Or then there’s that time when I was on the other receiving end of the sympathy pains.

I was struggling through those first brutal years of high school. The epitome of “Nerd”, thick glasses, teeth fighting each other (and trust me, adding the braces to the equation later didn’t help my case much either), high waters, stack of books above eye level and not a friend to my name (real or imagined) I DREADED lunch time.

So to ease the pain of being the only awkward loser in the cafeteria, staring into an endless abyss of unfriendly faces and premeditated jeers when the reality set in that I had NO ONE to sit with, instead I chose to find solace in the bathroom stalls. Locked inside a 2’ x 4’ bacteria infested breeding ground for syphilis for the duration of my school’s new hour long lunch, I silently ate my brown bagged meal and re-read all the expletives canvassing my surroundings.

That is until one day I was ripped from my seclusion and discovered. Apparently those bathrooms do get cleaned every now and then (you could have fooled me) and no one was allowed inside but the janitor. I heard her yelling to make sure the coast was clear and thus commence the scrub down but instead of tossing my lunch in my bag and walking out with SOME dignity intact, I decided that I could just amble my way up on top of the toilet and be able to stay comfortably while she cleaned everything BUT my stall. (Genius, I know.)

Unfortunately, they have these little things called KEYS to unlock the stalls when they’re stuck. And to my dismay, I suddenly heard the lock sliding and instantaneously found myself staring into the eyes of a heavyset, toothless black woman. Crouched above the crusty toilet, generic Dr. Thunder and brown sack of corn dogs and Funyuns clenched in my scrawny fists, glasses askew and terror plastered all over my face, she had found me.

Without a word, I knew the jig was up. I had been outed. No friends, no life, no dignity. And now I must walk all alone in to the gaping cafeteria, halfway through the period with food no longer a distraction for my taunting classmates, and humiliate myself as I shuffle aimlessly about looking for a place to sit. ALONE.

And amidst all her laughter and judgmental glares, I’m sure that janitor was embarrassed for me.

P.S. I should mention that I have been responding to your comments under the respective blogs, so check back often to read my replies! KTHNXPREESH