This title doesn’t fit, that’s quite emba...

I don’t really know how to start this article. That’s quite embarrassing. Then again, I think that’s a recurring theme in my life. I always find a way to embarrass myself. In a way I’m like Bob Dylan. Except it’s embarrassment’s door that I’m knock knock knocking on. I then realise that I’ve actually got the wrong door, just as it’s too late and the person who lives there is opening it.

I am a lightning rod for embarrassment. If there is a name of a person I’ve met too many times to forget, I’ll forget. If there’s a step to trip up on, I’ll trip up on it. If there’s a song that I can mutter when I’m walking down the street, I’ll mutter away. I’ll then notice the odd looks and try to decide if it’s best to stop, or to just pretend I’m on the phone with someone. If I get in a lift, I’ll end up turning round and looking at the mirror. Then someone gets in, sees me, and we have to have a silent two person lift ride. Of course, this is after I say ‘which floor?’; only to realise that they had already pressed the button and my voice had just broken up an octave as if I’m 15.

If you ever see me walking into the library (that’s just the kind of party animal lifestyle I lead) you will notice the doors decide to open at the very last moment. Or sometimes, just not at all. This means I end up walking very close to the doors, awkwardly pausing when I lose my nerve and think it’s not going to open, turning round, and then trying again. Throughout this process, I try and fail to look nonchalant. I could give more examples, but thinking of them is making me cringe, so for the rest of this I’ll be a bit vague.

Occasionally, when I’m talking to someone, I’ll say something a bit weird. Then I have to try to laugh it off and stammer through the conversation. Unfortunately, this is not in a charming Hugh Grant “Oh my gosh I really am rather mortified, erm, blimey, erm, terribly sorry” way, it’s more of a “No, wait. I didn’t mean… It was a joke… Stop walking away” kind of way.

Whenever I go out, especially if alcohol is involved, I’ll inevitably wake up the next morning (more accurately late afternoon – for anyone that knows me well) feeling that familiar ‘Oh shit, that actually happened didn’t it, can I rewind time?’ sensation. Usually, followed by a groan and that dreadful feeling that, at some point soon, I’m going to have to see the people I was out with the night before. This feeling is like Silvio Berlusconi to a woman: it just refuses to leave me alone. For the rest of the day I have to keep my mind actively occupied with every thought except what happened last night.

I like to think that I’m not alone in this pain. This torment. This mortally embarrassing coil. In fact, that’s the point. You are not alone. Everyone feels this in some way; some are just better at hiding it than others. Once you realise that everyone is too busy worrying about what embarrassing thing they did to care about what you did, you are liberated. It’s all really just in your head. The trick is just not letting it get to you. Unfortunately, that trick is like doing a backflip: you may how to do it theoretically, but actually pulling it off practically is the hard part. That was a bit of a contrived simile. I feel quite emb… ahhh, damn it, see how hard it is?

Okay, last night, after one too many, you may have danced like a bit of an idiot. Sure, at the time you felt like you were being a sleek suave Imperial version of James Bond when you were trying to get with that girl; but what’s the worst that can really happen? She, and everyone who noticed, will tell people. With 6 degrees of separation and all that everyone will know and sneer. Actually, that is pretty bad; I’ve forgotten what my point was going to be as I’m feeling your pain right now. Oh wait, it COULD have been worse. You could have done an inebriated Tweet (@girlthatsitsarowinfrontofme You’re well fit, seriously, like, I definitely would #upforit). Then, the next morning you would have been confronted with the irrefutable evidence.

Whenever you feel that dread welling up inside, spare a thought for me. I legitimately could have written this article at any point in time over the last four years.