I was recently reminded of my most embarrassing moment:
Back when I was in college, my roommate, Stephen Brown, and I would occasionally borrow clothes from one another. He had a few shirts I liked and I had a few pairs of pants he liked.
The one rule we had about sharing clothes was that it had to be returned clean and folded. He once told me with great pride that his mom bought him a “special” kind of fabric softener. When I asked what kind it was, he didn’t know the name, but thought it was particularly cool that this particular kind came on a white paper and dissolved in the washing machine.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him what you are now probably thinking: “dryer sheet.”
Anyway, he had borrowed a pair of brown corduroys from me and was wearing them around campus. I found him at the cafeteria with some of our friends, hamming it up, as usual, and making everyone laugh. He was parading around, acting extremely effeminate and talking in a high, whiney voice with his hands cocked at the wrists and walking very flamboyantly.
I set my tray down and watched him with this smirk on my face and then noticed he was wearing my pants.
It was at that moment that my mouth did the talking before consulting with my brain; a built-in feature that I’d like to have uninstalled someday.
I said in a loud and very masculine voice, “IF YOU’RE GAY, I WANT YOU TO TAKE MY PANTS OFF RIGHT NOW!”
The jukebox skipped, the cafeteria went silent, parents took kids off the street, a cat someplace arched its back and every eye in the building was on me in muted astonishment. It was no small awkward silence.
I, with a very red face and in a tiny little voice said, “he’s… wearing…. my pants.”
I don’t remember, but I think I ate alone that day.