Over at dooce (http://www.dooce.com/), the comments board is open for posting of embarrassing stories. Some of the stories are doozies—passing gas in the OB’s stirrups? With the doctor in position? Ouch.
One of my peak episodes of embarrassment wasn’t as embarrassing as it should have been since I was barely awake for it. It was college art history class, with a pair of notoriously hardass profs. Either one would have been intimidating, but with both of them present, the pressure was on.
Morning classes were tough enough to stay awake for, what with the staying-up-all-night-talking business, and the drinking-too-much business. Not to mention procrastination-related all-nighters. Art history was notorious for its soporific powers. Gather a bunch of sleepy undergrads and turn off the lights to show slides of the French Impressionists’ finest work, and you’ll find that even a bed of nails (rather than the markedly uncomfortable chairs we had) couldn’t keep everyone alert.
I nodded off...only to be awakened by Professor She-Devil’s long pointer stick (about the length of a cue stick) prodding me in the shoulder. "Wake up!" she hissed.
I never sat closer than the sixth row after that experience.