I recently had the pleasure of spending some rare moments with one of my dearest childhood friends, which always puts us in a frame of mind to recall the awful and hilarious things we’ve been through in life. Purple fondue. Yeasty homemade wine. Breaking and entering. Here is one story that stands out, which features one of my Most Embarrassing Moments.
Candace and I try to celebrate our June birthdays together, and one year we decided a day at Forest Park, in which we would play the role of Elegant Ladies, would be just the thing. The men and the children could watch themselves for most of the day, leaving us free to wander the St. Louis Art Museum without a care in the world, have lunch at the museum restaurant because that is what sophisticated ladies do, then end our day with an outdoor performance of Romeo & Juliet at Shakespeare in the Park {to be rejoined with our families at that time because it couldn’t be helped}.
I wore a long white dress, while Candace had on a short black number. I regretted the length of my dress later when, while outside in the sweltering heat taking a tour of the Shakespeare Theatre, the sweat was running down my legs in streams that felt extremely unladylike. {By the time of the tour, by the way, Candace had cleverly changed into shorts and a tee-shirt, of which I myself didn’t have the foresight to pack.}
At the museum, without children:
It seemed to start out pretty well. We giddily skipped to a new modern art installation with the rest of the post-brunch crowd, our lipstick fresh and hours ahead to chat about things people in art museums chat about.
Dahling, would you look at this Monet!
We’d been exploring only a few minutes when I stopped in front of display featuring framed newspaper clippings. Some of them were very small, and hard to read unless you were nearly nose to nose with the glass. No warning strip to prevent us from getting up close and personal with this singular modern art, we took a better look while crowds passed us by and children nearly stomped on the hem of my dress.
I was startled when a gray-haired docent, who had been standing across the room and not anywhere near us, approached me with a warning tone in her severe voice. “Could you please not touch the art? It looked like you were touching the art. “
I had been pointing out a particularly small bit of script to Candace, which we were both noting when I was reproached by the much older woman who
a) needed better glasses as clearly her depth of perception was off and
b) should’ve been watching the hordes of sticky children who moments before were getting too close to ME, also a work of art in my crepe white dress.
I was so startled by her accusation that I fumbled for a moment, replying without thinking, “I’m sorry! Of course.” Later I regretted this, and told Candace that I shouldn’t have apologized, because why are women always unnecessarily apologizing? and should instead have responded politely with, “I did not touch the art nor is there any indication we aren’t allowed to take a closer look, but I respect your concern.” As it was we walked quickly away trying to muffle our peals of laughter at the ridiculousness of it all.
Throughout the day Candace and I reminded each other to behave around the art. Absolutely no touching! Remain a respectable distance away from the sacred artifacts! At one point, in a boring hallway between art rooms, I mimed the interaction with the docent and exaggeratedly touched the wall in multiple places before realizing we were being silently followed by another docent of disapproving eyebrows. Ah.
The Proper Ladies Luncheon we shared together was a memorable affair. Art makes one hungry and being skeptical of small, delicate portions we both chose the burger with all the fixings. Special sauce? Yes. Onions? More. Fried egg? Hallelujah. Bacon? I would be affronted if there wasn’t.
The most peculiar thing was….our burgers arrived quite nude, and we didn’t notice until after our server deposited the plates (so much art to talk about). When we did notice the errors and brought it to the attention of our gracious waitress, she remedied the mistakes one little plate at a time, as each missing ingredient was sent from the kitchen. First, the bacon came out. Then the onions. Before long Candace and I were surrounded by small plates of burger toppings which made our table the most interesting in the room: the Build Your Own Burger Table. All the staff was profusely apologetic over the many errors that came to light during the course of our meal and, in the end, everything was comped without us asking. In fact, the restaurant manager even followed us as we left to apologize over all the kitchen mishaps (I thought I was in trouble, again, when we were chased down before entering the bathrooms). Really, though, it was just a funny little thing that made for an eventful lunch.
But the cherry on top, actually the most memorable part of the day for me, the part that nearly eclipses everything else because I can’t quite shake the vestiges of horrified embarrassment from my memory, came at twilight during Shakespeare in the Park intermission. We were outside, and drinking copious amounts of liquids to offset the sweltering heat, and I asked Tom to accompany me to the bathrooms, which was simply a row of port-a-potties and not nearly as elegant as the facilities we utilized inside the art museum earlier.
I would have to endure. Using a port-a-potty entails intense concentration (no pun intended) in order to make sure I don’t actually touch any surface with any part of my body. There may be copious amounts of toilet paper used as a nest of protection. This focus plus my urgent need to empty my bladder undoubtedly resulted in why the door was never locked. And that, my friends, is where my birthday story ends. Me, seated on my port-a-potty cloud of toilet paper, arms full of white dress, staring into the face of the gentleman standing before me as well as those waiting in line behind him. No one reacts fast enough in those moments. Time stands still entirely too long, and in utter helplessness, I did the only thing I COULD do.
I peed and laughed.
Photos by Elyse Photography , Erik Odiin and Julien Delaunay on Unsplash
