One Of My Most Embarrassing Moments

How I can’t believe I was ever that naive

Do you ever remember an embarrassing moment, and wonder how you could’ve been so naïve? This is one of my moments.

I was twenty-two and found a strange little insect crawling on the sofa. I scooped it up on a piece of paper and put it in a glass jar, saved it to show my boyfriend Mike when he got in from his trip at sea, scalloping.

The day he landed; Mike caught a ride home from the boat with a couple living nearby. As a thank you for the drive, he invited them in for a beer. The four of us sat and chatted. Excited to show off the funny little insect I’d captured in a bottle, I went to the kitchen cupboard and returned to hand it to Mike.

He held up the jar and watched the little creature crawl around.

“What is it?” He turned the jar, studying it from all angles.

“No idea,” I said. “That’s why I saved it.” He passed the jar back to me and I took it over to show our guests. The woman asked where I found it.

“Here in the living room. On the sofa,” I motioned to where she and her husband were sitting. “Just crawling around.”

I noticed our guests became uncomfortable and eyed each other, but I didn’t have a clue as to why. The woman handed me back the bottle.

“It’s weird,” I said, tilting the glass jar, watching the little creature crawl. “It moves like a crab. Though a crab couldn’t make it up from the beach. And I’ve never seen one so small.”

No one said what they thought the insect was. I sat the jar down on the antique wooden truck that served as our coffee table, next to my cigarettes and lighter, next to the full ashtray, near the bottles of open beers.

The woman rose. “We should get going.” She said to her husband,

Mike got up and escorted them to the door, again thanking them for the drive home.

I called out, “It was nice meeting the two of you.”

“Yeah.” The woman nodded. “Great meeting you too.”

The next day, Mike headed off to collect his paycheck, and I headed off to the doctor for my prenatal checkup. I slipped the jar with the teeny tiniest crab-like creature I’d ever seen into my handbag to show to the doctor, hoping he might tell me what it was.

When I handed the bottle to the doctor, he took one quick look, set the jar down on his desk, and said, “It’s a pubic louse.”

Shocked and confused, I stared back at him and asked, “A what?”

He repeated what he’d just said while my mind spun. Louse? Oh, no! Like in lice! Pubic lice! Oh my God! How stupid am I? If it looks like a crab, it just might be a CRAB! How had I not figured it out? Friends and I used to joke about crabs. But we’d known no one who had them. We’d never even had head lice as children!

My face turned red. Not only was I embarrassed by showing it to the doctor, but I understood the couple’s reactions from the day before. They’d known what it was! An insect. Ha. Yeah, right, a parasitic insect. I hoped I’d never see them again.

Still in shock, I struggled to answer the questions the doctor asked and to comprehend the treatment he recommended.

Nervous, my mouth dry, my lips sticking together, I watched the doctor write the name of the product I needed to buy at the drugstore.

With great force, I opened my mouth and asked, “Is it okay? Okay, for the baby? … I mean… it won’t hurt the baby, will it?”

“No,” he said, “just follow the instructions. It’ll be okay.”

I nodded and wondered if the situation could get any worse.

On the way home, I stopped at the pharmacy. Uneasy about buying such a product in a small town where everyone knows everyone. Where gossip so easily spreads.

In the store, I grabbed several other items off the shelves, hoping the cashier wouldn’t examine my purchases too closely.

At home, in the boathouse we were renovating, I told Mike the news. Stunned as I was about needing to treat ourselves, he said little and we headed next door to my parents’ house for a bath.

While we filled the tub, we read the instructions about how to wash and dry the treatment area. Mike opened the bottle and took a whiff, then held it out for me to smell it too. It was, as I’d expected, a strong unpleasant chemical odour.

Mike continued to read the instruction out loud, double-checking, making sure we got it right. “Avoid getting this medication inside the rectum or vagina. Leave the medication on for 10 minutes.”

I cry out. “Ten minutes!”

“Shh… your mother will hear.”

“So?” I lowered my voice. “Do we really need to leave it on that long?”

“Yes, that’s what it says. Then,” he continued reading out loud, “work it into a lather using warm water and rinse out thoroughly.”

“Fine,” I said, “let’s get to it.”

We applied the lotion and stood naked in the small bathroom, staring at each other while we waited. Mike continually checking his watch.

“Romantic, huh,” I said. Then I fell silent and worried. Even though the instructions said it was okay to use while pregnant, I wasn’t sure I trusted the information. What if it caused some kind of harm to the baby? What if it made me lose the baby?

After finishing the treatment, Mike and I went back to our home. He played Bob Dylan records and drank beer. Once he got drunk, he changed his tune about it being okay, not knowing where the crabs came from.

He said, “It had to be you who got crabs.”

“Like it couldn’t be you?”

“No.” He looked at me, so certain. “I’d know if I did.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I had nothing like that until I met you.”

“So?” I paused, “um, you’re blaming me?”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying I never had them until I met you.”

“Well, I never had them until I met you either, so there.”

“Well then, maybe it was your best friend, Maria,” he said sarcastically.

We went around and around in an angry blame game until I felt sick to my stomach. He kept accusing me or Maria, and I struck back with it could very well be him.

Sick of arguing, I stood and said, “Maybe you got them out on the boat.” It was a last-ditch attempt to place the blame elsewhere.

“No,” he said like he was so certain. “I’ve been sailing for years and I’ve never got them before.”

“Oh, there isn’t a first time for everything? You are impossible!”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “You’re impossible for not admitting it.”

“I’d admit it if I knew it was me!”

“They were probably here,” he said. “You probably got them before I met you.”

“Oh yeah, right,” I said, snarky. “No way could it be you.” I turned to leave the room, but then added, “And if I want to use your stupid logic, then since I never had crabs in the past, I couldn’t possibly have them now! And as a matter-of-fact, I remember seeing one crawling on your chest hair the last trip, but I thought nothing of it.”

“No way,” he said, cocky and self-assured, determined I hadn’t seen what I said I had. “I would’ve known.”

“Okay, I give up! I don’t fucking care where they came from. Just that they’re gone. I’m going to bed. Good night.”

I left the living room and stomped upstairs to the bedroom.

He remained up drinking beer and blasting music until the early morning hours.

The next day, Mike was all apologetic for all he had said the night before. We kissed and made up. But by evening, once he got drunk, the blame game started all over again.

And I hated how it would become a bitter topic that would follow us throughout our relationship, something we could never agree upon.

BARBARA CARTER is a writer, artist, and creative teacher who has survived many difficult times in her quest for love and a peaceful life.

Learn more about her on her website: https://www.amazon.com/Barbara-Carter/e/B00N14CA2I

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