It’s not often that a young, 20-something woman gives thanks to God for granny panties, but on that day, I did.
I’d just started my first-ever truly adult job — the one that would launch my career and social life and get me off my parents’ payroll. I needed to make a good impression. I needed to soak up knowledge and make smart choices, because I was going to awe and dazzle. An industry, just waiting for me to arrive, would be forever changed.
I called in sick on my first day.
I have asthma, so if a cold goes south, I can be (and was) a mess. I’m oversharing so you understand I didn’t belong in an office that day. Although I sounded sick when I called, my not-yet-colleagues made bets on whether I’d ever show up, and if I did, how long I’d last. I’d dazzled in the wrong way, by not meeting the most basic requirement of a job: showing up.
Our office was in an overstuffed space and a new office, years in the making, was about to open. When we moved, we’d all be on one level, but for now, departments were spread across floors connected by a maze of halls, elevators if you could find them, and a spiral staircase that I walked up and down every day because it was the most direct route to my seat.
My little desk, wedged in a hallway, was surrounded with moving boxes and piles of history to be picked through. I had to shimmy between stacks of paper and battle for enough space to pull my chair out.
Like anyone just starting out, and especially someone who calls in sick on their first day, I was given mind-numbing tasks — the kinds of things that make you wonder if you’ve made a grave error and if the paycheck’s worth it.
I was addressing hundreds of “We’ve moved!” cards, peeling a label off a sheet of labels, sticking it on a postcard, and lining them up in a shallow cardboard box. When I filled the box, I could stretch my legs on a walk to the mail room.
It was summer and I was wearing one of those dresses that’s loose and flounces, rushing between my legs and trailing me by several feet when I walked fast. It was electric blue and I didn’t fit in with any of the super-cool people whose black T-shirts and jeans fit just right.
I had grabbed a full box of several hundred cards and started down the spiral staircase toward the mail room when I slipped.
This wasn’t a nothing-to-see-here kind of slip. I lost my footing, and as I pinged off stair rails and thudded on every step, building up momentum as I went, the open box of cards flew up and seemed suspended in air.
I shot off the stairs, like a toboggan out of a chute, fast and furious, skidding across the floor on my shoulders, legs over my head, dress over my face, until friction stopped me, butt up, at the knees of a briefcase-carrying, suit-clad gentleman waiting for an appointment.
Chatter ceased and time stopped.
The only noise was an unanswered phone and the flutter of change-of-address cards, flipping in the air and clicking when their edges hit the granite floor. I jumped up and, under stunned gazes, tried to catch cards in midair. I knew my crashing lobby entrance had reverberated throughout the office when my boss, from a world away, screamed, “Who bit the dust?!”
Embracing this moment of humiliation got me a lot of second dates.
Having a “most embarrassing moment” to share was a litmus test that uncovered humor, self-awareness, and a compass of sorts. Skidding across the floor of a crowded office lobby with your moon out isn’t normal for most people on most days. It is normal, though, to acknowledge when something is weird or wrong or embarrassing. It’s OK to own your oopses. Or it used to be.
I’d like to tell you this is my only embarrassment. It’s certainly big enough to have filled a cosmic quota, but it’s one of the many things I’ve learned from, so it sits on a long list of mistakes big and small, missed opportunities, and failures.
In a job interview, when I’m asked to share a weakness, I have a mental scroll to run through. I don’t have to say, “My biggest weakness is that I care too much,” and try to keep a straight face. I have a meaty answer because I’ve messed up, owned it and overcome it.
When did thin skin and shamelessness become a superpower that draws people in by the drove?
I worry for people on first dates today. I hope the pizza they’re sharing goes cold because they’re too busy to eat, belly laughing at the hysterically unthinkable stories they’re sharing. I hope we haven’t become too brittle for abandon.
Just in case, I have advice: My ego’s taken a few blows and none of them were fatal. You too can survive a few knocks if you build up your under-armor. Know yourself inside out and hang out with people who believe in you, flaws and all. Share your mistakes and accept their embrace.
And plan. If all else fails, the right underwear for the day will save you.
