There are certain things in my life that are only kept in check by shame. Mostly fear of sales/service people judging me. I know this is irrational but I just don’t want to have *that particular* awkward encounter. Maybe it’s for the best that I have some shame left in my awkward existence. Enough to keep me from owning 30 cats, but not enough to keep me from posting 30 cat pics on my blog.
I may or may not have been, at one time, addicted to home pregnancy tests. It’s (believe it or not) a common thing among women trying for a baby. But I was never able to go whole hog into the dark underbelly of POAS (pee on a stick) addiction. Because it was way too awkward to walk up to the cashier carrying 17 first response pregnancy tests. No poker face is that strong.
Another form of this life-impeding (or lifesaving?) shame is known (in my mind) as cheese shame. I am certain I am not the only person suffering from cheese shame.
The Cheese Shame Awareness Logo
I love cheese on my food. When the waiter at a restaurant asks “Would you like some freshly grated Romano?”, my answer, without exception, is yes. But once the waiter starts grating and says “Tell me when,” the cheese shame starts. I start thinking “Oh no! It’s been too long! I’m going to use up his whole block of cheese! Must. Say. When.” And I assure him that it’s enough cheese on my pasta primavera. Even though, in my cheese-loving heart of hearts, I wanted more.
I hope that Moses can grow up unashamed of his enthusiasm for cheese. But I also hope he never finds himself at Walgreens buying 17 pregnancy tests.
Because that would just be awkward
Recently it dawned on me that I am an adult.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, but here I stand with my own adult responsibilities and small human to care for. I feel so unprepared.
I am much like Ted
Friends of mine have skills in domestic arts such as cooking and knitting and not looking like zombies when they go in public. I must have been out sick the days where they taught these things. The most impressive skill I posses is bow drilling (basically making fire from sticks) and that has yet to come in handy in my life as a full time mom. I also have a really good memory for lyrics. Again… Not very helpful.
Basically I can do what this guy is doing, except while singing all of Don McLean’s “American Pie”
Right now we are working on decorating and furnishing our house. I am shocked and appalled that someone left this task to me, because I don’t even know what’s going on and then suddenly there is someone trying to sell me a coffee table and I can’t even tell you the difference in a “family room” and a “living room” yet I am expected to furnish both of these things without making a complete ass of myself.
I think to myself, that surely someone must be mistaken here. Only real adults can decide if a loveseat or a chair and a half is appropriate. But there I am in a furniture mall wearing my baby and answering questions about square footage.
I feel like a kindergartener sitting the SAT.
But then… I never even actually took the SAT. So maybe I just feel like regular me taking the SAT. It’s best described as a comic book thought bubble with only the word “What.” Written inside.
As a kid it seemed like adults just knew the answers to these things. They knew all the names for different chairs and which ones were appropriate for which rooms. It was just programmed into their adult brains it seemed. Maybe my parents neglected to teach me this life skill. Or maybe, just maybe, they were bullshitting their way through and hoping no one notices, just like I am now
Moses doubts my qualifications as “adult”. He is onto me.