by RICK MORTON
I was in the Very Important Meeting when my nose began to run. Not the oh-so-subtle run where a well-timed sniffle could take care of it. Oh no. The kind of run that feels like China has opened the flood gates on the Three Gorges Dam without prior warning.
A droplet formed right on my beak. Right there in front of the Very Important People. And then it fell.
Time froze. I knew everyone saw it. I’d been speaking at the time and they were all looking at me.
It fell just like that stupid silhouette does during the Mad Men opening credits. And then it hit the table and exploded. I’m pretty sure it made a noise that even the removalists in the freight elevator three hallways away could hear.
It was awkward.
But here’s the thing. I’m going to reclaim my awkward moments after the fact. We’ve all been there, usually in that public situation when something stratospherically embarrassing happens. In that very specific moment our dignity withers and wilts like a petunia thrust directly into the sun.
You feel the stares of a thousand people. Judging. Mocking. You want to dig a hole, crawl into it and fill it with lead, the better to ignore everyone for ever after.
They can be simpler, of course. Like when you say goodbye to a friend in the street and then you both end up walking off in the same direction, at the same pace. I’ve been known to concoct preposterously elaborate ‘last minute’ excuses to avoid these situations.