Not an Oracle

It doesn't matter that you skilfully performed that famous 'trip dance' when you fell over your own feet in public, hoping that no one would notice or that the old woman who screeched 'I am not an invalid!' when you offered to help her on to the bus the other morning made you feel no larger than a penny. It doesn't matter that you waved to the stranger who you thought you recognised only to discover they were waving to their friend behind you or that your shopping bag split on the journey home, causing apples and potatoes to shoot out in all directions and inevitably forcing you to face the cumbersome decision of letting them roll away forever or scrambling to pick them up in red-faced silence. It doesn't matter that you spent the whole day with your trouser flies down on the same day you decided to wear cartoon alien boxers or that you tried to push the door which had the word 'PULL' in large capital letters plastered on the front of it. It doesn't matter that you found yourself plugged into your headphones and Wilson Phillip's 'Hold On' came on shuffle playing loud enough to be heard on public transportation when you are surrounded by people who are indiscreetly trying to hide the smiles creeping on their faces. It doesn't matter. I don't feel I have been successful in completing my day if I have not sent red-hot-lava-like blood rushing to my face or wanting one of those inexplicable sink holes that you hear about on the news from time to time, opening up beneath me and plunging me into the perfect hiding place. A small dose of humiliation from time to time keeps us humble and keeps us human. Despite the soaring sense of mortification each time I find myself dealing with another 'situation', I don't think I would have it any other way. I like my ego kept in line, thanks.