Slipping on God's banana peel

in praise of our most embarrassing moments

“We all have such fateful objects—it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another—carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of special significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane’s heart always break.” - Vladimir Nabokov

As I get older and, as promised, cease to be embarrassed by almost anything, I’ve come to find “easily embarrassed” is a quality I can really sniff out. When a friend says something questionable in front of someone you want to impress, I feel the tension in your arm—the restraint from flipping your hand back and smacking them on the shoulder to say “really?” Or when you walk back a shitty, albeit harmless opinion, like “G-Eazy is a good rapper” the second it’s shot down. And I don’t blame you. I just implore you to find God.

I’ve been playing this New York Times game called Connections. You get 16 word blocks to group into fours by their common thread. It’s the kind of morning coffee challenge that forges new neural pathways; there’s usually tricky overlap, and your brain zig-zags through the land of common genius. Anyway, the other day I got a perfect score on puzzle #111. I took a screenshot and posted it to my Instagram story where I used the draw tool to wrap a red heart around the angel number.

If I see angel numbers all the time then I’m having the same spiritual experience as everyone else. Something about that is calming—to know we’re clutching the same holy rope, finding stability together over uncertain terrain just by looking at the microwave. But the real treasure is what you see through your own unique lens into the divine.

So I welcome you to my inner world, where God is ever present in humiliation. 

On a beautiful June day, I was walking my dog. On a beautiful June day, my dog had to poop twice and I only had one bag. So there I am, sun in my eyes, crouched down in the squat of shame, untying the bag from poop #1, attempting to gently nudge poop #2 into it without ruining my life. And in that cursed moment this cute mom and her teenage son spot Mousse and absolutely lose it over how “BEAUTIFUL” he is, my stately runt of a black Standard Poodle. They have questions. They want to keep the conversation going. Meanwhile, I have lost control of the situation; there is poop on my hands. How do you tell two friendly strangers that you really can’t do this right now because there is poop on your hands and you need to wipe it off in the small plot of grass over there where some dog has surely just peed, cry, and sprint home.

Well, I’ll tell you, that was the moment I found God. By that point in my life, my general capacity for embarrassment had already mostly diminished, but acting casual with poop hands really sealed the deal. I became impervious to the mustard stain on a white sweater, the public admission that sometimes, when I’m PMSing, I hunch over the kitchen counter like a hormonal gargoyle, plunging tortilla chips into the butter dish.

There isn’t a true patron saint of embarrassment, but St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and at the end of the day, we’re all sort of… that

I notice a lot more now. I’m present for the little bullshit that reminds me to laugh at myself. For example, when I’m out for a stroll and reach an intersection and a car waves me on, I completely forget how to walk. I’m so concerned with moving speedily *without breaking into a full run* that what occurs is something of a demented skip, like my leg was shot. All the while I’m doing that classic, closed mouth, white-person-passing-you-on-a-hike smile, maybe throwing the driver a half-wave. The first time I apprehended this was the moment I knew God. You find God in humiliation. But you know God in the moments when you can recognize that you’re “supposed” to be humiliated and by his mischievous grace, are not. He releases the doves and they coo, “congratulations, you’ve submitted to the big, fat joke of existence.” At the end of the day, it’s all poop hands, anyway.

Now that I’ve unlocked this verdant heaven within myself, I can extend it outward… which really feels like a cheat code to being a more loving person. Our culture deifies celebrities, yet here’s this way to worship normal people, and it starts with watching them trip over their own feet!

I mean, where is God in the glossy performance of the rich and famous? I want to see you on the big screen at the Phillies game stuffing your mouth with Chickie’s & Pete’s crabfries. I want you to queef during sex with a new partner. I want to tell you you’re brilliant and watch you awkwardly fight me on it. I want you to parallel park like a fucking idiot with a line of cars behind you. I want you to invite me over for a steak dinner and serve me a hockey puck. I want you to get caught stealing a pair of earrings from Target. I want you to get a terrible shag haircut. I want you to accidentally send that disparaging text to the person it’s about. I want you to wear an Iron Maiden shirt (that you paid $50 for at Urb*n O*tfitters) to a dive bar, go ghost white when some old biker asks you your favorite track off Fear of the Dark between pool shots. Am I asking too much here?

If you can’t see God in the moments you’re most chagrined, I’ll do it for you. And your beet red blushing angel face will crystallize in my mind your undeniable humanity.

I used to be embarrassed that I worked at Dunkin Donuts for five years, living with my parents, making $7.25 an hour in my hometown of Danville, PA. I was even more embarrassed that I’d sometimes dress up as a donut and dance outside the store for a few extra bucks. It’s a part of my story now. And a hilarious one at that.

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This is an excruciating time for the world. I hope this piece adds lightness to your day. As always, thank you for reading. Now go make a fool of yourself.