My whole life I've had a great propesnity for going red in the face. I don't know exactly why this is, whether my blood really pumps that fast, or if my lineage has failed to evolve past the instinct of immitating a tomatoe at signs of danger, but it happends remarkably easily. Often, in fact, it happens without my even knowing it.
A victim of his own principles...
"Your face went SO RED!" Friends will say with a improportionate amount of glee, long after the instance has taken place - for instance: I borrowed a pen off someone. I had no idea this had occured. I hadn't felt nervous. So I can only imagine the colors I change when I actually am nervous. Plaid perhaps.
Which doesn't really help. The moment you know you've gone red, you are instantly emberassed about going red, which sends the signal to the brain "STOP GOING RED! OH MY GOD! STOP YOU FOOL! AHHHHH!!!" which, of course, leads to an increase of body temperature of approximately 9 hundred and ten degrees, which means you're now too red for people to be able to look directly at you. It's great.
It'd take a secure man...
And the thing is that I can't remember the last time I was properly emberassed about anything other than going red. I don't mind talking in front of people. I don't mind if I drop something or trip. I'm not really bothered by mistakes, unless I one day mistakenly land in the middle of the Soldier Field at halftime in my underwear. Even then, though, I'd be more worried about going red than trotting off the field with a strained grin on my face. It's the feeling that you look emberassed that's emberassing. "I'm not emberassed!" You want to interject. "Really! I don't care at all! I'd have liked not to have done that, but it's fine! REALLY!" But then you'd look emberassed to look emberassed and...oh it's just this awful, viscious circle.
Like today, when one of our managers asked how I hurt my hand, and insinuated (quite unhumorously, if you think about it) that I had slugged my wife one. I stalled on a sarcastic reply, and instead resorted to mock emberassment in the form of silence which, of course, yielded the obvious response. "OH NO! THEY'RE GOING TO THINK YOU REALLY HIT ABBI! YOU ALWAYS HAVE JOKES AND NOW YOU HAVE NONE! STOP GOING RED! SAY SOMETHING FUNNY!" No dice. Redder and redder I went. Thank God Abbi hasn't recently injured herself in any obvious way.
No, I don't think they could have concieved such a thing - knowing us as well as they do. Still, why, my dear blood-preassure? Why do you insist on sending all blood to my face the moment I worry that all blood has been sent to my face? Could you send it elsewhere? Over to the right hand, perhaps? That wouldn't be so hard to hide. Though I suppose I should be pleased I'm spared sweaty palms in the case of anxiety. I may look preposterous, but those hand-shakes'll be dry as a bone. You win some you lose some, I guess.
Like today, when one of our managers asked how I hurt my hand, and insinuated (quite unhumorously, if you think about it) that I had slugged my wife one. I stalled on a sarcastic reply, and instead resorted to mock emberassment in the form of silence which, of course, yielded the obvious response. "OH NO! THEY'RE GOING TO THINK YOU REALLY HIT ABBI! YOU ALWAYS HAVE JOKES AND NOW YOU HAVE NONE! STOP GOING RED! SAY SOMETHING FUNNY!" No dice. Redder and redder I went. Thank God Abbi hasn't recently injured herself in any obvious way.
No, I don't think they could have concieved such a thing - knowing us as well as they do. Still, why, my dear blood-preassure? Why do you insist on sending all blood to my face the moment I worry that all blood has been sent to my face? Could you send it elsewhere? Over to the right hand, perhaps? That wouldn't be so hard to hide. Though I suppose I should be pleased I'm spared sweaty palms in the case of anxiety. I may look preposterous, but those hand-shakes'll be dry as a bone. You win some you lose some, I guess.
By Dave Beauchene
No comments:
Post a Comment