Shame Sharing

In yoga this week the instructor shared a story about running his minivan into a wall. For the second time. He was obviously embarrassed, but, like myself, finds sharing the shame to be part of the recovery process. He also used it as part of his lesson to the class in humility and rejecting judgement. Blah blah blah blah. Lessons...

On Thursday I was at Katie's house making not-sangria and was bending down to find a pitcher when my shorts split all the way up the back.

Katie, potty training her toddler, came out of the bathroom to find her eldest child staring in horror as I shouted "LOOK WHAT JUST HAPPENED?" and bent over so the split was extra evident. Laughter ensued. (She kindly loaned me something to wear the rest of the evening so things didn't actually get embarrassing.)

Things to note:

1. These shorts are 15ish years old and from Old Navy... they weren't really meant to last this long... either fabrically or fashionally. (Those are both words.) 

2. Luckily I was wearing nice underwear that covered all aspects of my aspect.  

3. I had worn these same shorts out the night prior with my fella and ooooh how this story would have been different if I hadn't been at my best friend's house... Actually, it might have been very similar now that I think about it, except he wouldn't have had anything for me to wear to hide my shame and would have been mortified on my behalf. 

I called him on the way home to share this little anecdote. 

WC: Oh my god. What did you do?

Me: I bent over and showed Katie my ass. 
WC: You self-confessed?

Me: Hell yeah. You wouldn't have?

I then proceeded to picture myself trying to leave the situation, backing out, so as to not draw attention to the split pants. "Yeah, I know I just got here, but *yawn* I'm exhausted... Oh, no, I don't want any wine. I hate wine... Whoa! I'm okay. It did hurt a little when I fell down your stairs, but my trainer told me walking backwards burns more calories. LOOOK AWAY!!" 

Nine times out of ten I will confess my shame immediately. It seems easier. (And usually that 1 out of 10 times I'll confess within a day or so.)

The other day I went for a walk in the rain. If you've been watching the news, you'll know we're having a bit of "biblical" flooding in Colorado according to the national weather service (drama queens). It was just sprinkling when I left for my walk. Two miles later and I'm soaked to the bone so I stopped in a store to buy an umbrella. Because I wasn't paying attention and I was trying not to draw attention to my just-got-out-of-the-shower-where-the-fuck-is-my-towel-damn-it's-in-the-bedroom look, I grabbed a poncho instead. But I didn't know until I already paid and walked out. And I was too embarrassed to go back in for an umbrella so I just wore the stupid bright blue poncho. 

What I know is that the things I don't share start to own me. If I'm in a relationship and I stop telling my friends about things, then there's something to hide and if I'm hiding I'm really ashamed and if I'm really ashamed then I probably shouldn't be doing whatever I'm doing. I don't require reassurance or validation necessarily, but I require things to not be a secret. That's some fucking wisdom, dammit.

Here's a picture of my ass. It's really hard to take a flattering picture of your own ass, just FYI. So don't judge me. I don't have mom-butt normally. I don't think.

The moral of the story is that if you don't tell me what stupid thing you just did, then I'm the only one talking and it's all about the conversation.