There is a spectrum of mortification on which all of our shameful experiences fall.
Some
instances are embarrassing but you can laugh about them almost
immediately (like when you're putting groceries away from your reusable
market bags and you find a pair of underwear clinging to the inside of
one as if it was desperately trying to survive the laundering process
and thought itself safe there and you wonder if the box boy was blushing
whilst bagging up your bread and mushrooms).
Other
occurrences are so embarrassing that you internally (or even externally)
shudder every time you recall them (which you try
very hard not to do). In fact, the word "embarrassed" isn't adequate. Extremely "distressed" or even "emotionally damaged" are more apt.
And
then there are the things right in the middle which are genuinely
embarrassing and you really hope they never happen again, but you can
sorta kinda laugh about them...eventually.
One of those latter experiences is that with which I shall now regale you.
A
few years ago, I was on a team of women from my church fellowship who
were going to Romania on an outreach. We were going to work with
disadvantaged Roma (that's the PC term for "gypsy") children and put on a
one day women's conference. In order to raise funds needed for
said-trip, we offered to clean houses in exchange for a donation toward
our cause.
Let's just say that on this team of house cleaners, I was
not the MVP. Nor, at the end of the season, was I likely to be awarded the "most improved" trophy.
You see...
I hate cleaning.
Don't
misunderstand. I'm not a sick slob. My home is fairly tidy and devoid
of clutter and any mess which is sticky, stinky, crunchy or slippery is
cleaned up immediately. However, if the mess is of a dusty, linty or
even somewhat grimy nature, it will probably be there for a while.
Sometimes a
long while.
And when I do clean, I have a sort of
good enough attitude.
*swipe* *wipe* *primp* *fluff*
Uhhh...yeah, that's good enough.
So, as you can imagine, I was a bit nervous about cleaning houses
in the name of Jesus,
so to speak. Can't I just edit some term papers in the name of Jesus or
even bake some homemade rolls? Those are endeavors I can excel in but
cleaning?
It's not that I think I'm
too good to clean. Rather, I
know that I'm
no good at cleaning. I don't
try to do a crappy job--it just comes naturally.
Anyway,
I warned the other ladies that I don't have a good cleaning eye and
that if they saw something I should scrub a little harder or sweep a bit
more thoroughly then they should feel free to tell me.
We
arrived at one particular house and I was given the job of vacuuming
for which I was very grateful because it's kind of hard to screw that
up.
Or so I thought.
There I was,
vacuuming away in one of the two living rooms, trying to suck every last
misplaced particle off of the carpet when I felt the roaring appliance
bump into the base of the coffee table.
Now this wasn't
just any old dinged up wooden coffee table. By the looks of it, I think
the homeowners purchased it at a garage sale in Vatican City. In fact,
the
pope himself may have propped his feet up on that
very table.
You see, it was similar to these:
When the vacuum bumped into the coffee table's base, it wasn't just a
wooden leg it hit. It was a
cherubic leg and horror of horrors...
...
there was a big chunk missing from the thigh!
Little flakes of white plaster littered the floor. My stomach lurched.
What should I do!?!?!
First,
I sucked up all the little white bits of carnage, careful not to
inflict more damage in this accidental case of liposuction.
Mental mayhem ensued:
I
wasn't being careless or rough! How could I have busted that thing so
easily? People shouldn't own furniture that can't withstand a little
bump from a vacuum. What do I say? Do I say anything? I have to say
something! But this is ridiculous! I wasn't being careless or rough! How
could I have busted...
If I was already uneasy at the idea of doing a crummy cleaning job, I was now
thoroughly distressed.
By
the end of our cleaning time, I had determined to admit to what I had
done, so I pulled one of my friends aside and confided in her. She
practically held my hand as we approached the man who had hired us to
clean his home.
Standing before him, I looked up into
his face (he was very tall, his eyes at least an entire foot above mine
so I felt like a naughty second grader confessing to the principal) and
said:
"I'm so very sorry but I damaged your coffee table while vacuuming."
Well, that's what I
intended
to say. Unfortunately, I only got about four words in before I began to
blubber like a baby, rendering my speech nearly unintelligable.
(I
don't cry very often, buy when the urge strikes, it is nearly
uncontainable. In books, you read about the hero or heroine expertly
controlling their facial muscles and tear ducts in spite of their entire
family just being dragged off by wolves or some equivalent trauma. Not
me. I knock a chunk off a plaster thigh and fat tears start slipping
down my trembling cheeks while my voice squeaks out in barely
decipherable Morse code.)
Somehow, the words "broke", "vacuum" and "table" must have been discernible.
The man looked down at me with such care and concern in his eyes that I lifted my arms and said,
"Hold me, Papa."
Okay,
not really, but he
was really cool about it as he calmly suggested that we go look at the damage.
All
of my cleaning friends, the man and myself made our way into the living
room where I shamefully pointed out the afflicted heavenly limb, my
eyes still dripping.
"Oh, that?" he said, waving his hand. "You didn't do that. My daughter did that months ago."
What?!?!
I'm innocent?!?!?
It actually made sense. The missing piece was a good inch long gouge and there hadn't been any
chunks on the floor, just the little flakes which I must have bumped loose.
Although the moment had turned to one of immense relief, I was still horribly embarrassed and additionally now felt rather
stupid.
Since that day, I haven't seen that guy once and (although he was very kind and I do wish him well in life)...
...that's fine by me.
