I can’t hold it in any longer – I have a serious disclosure to make. One that doesn’t put me in a good light. One that may even permanently besmirch my good name.
For every moment it stays within me, the shame grows, gnawing at my insides like a rabid squirrel trapped in a closed organic peanut butter jar. Letting this story out and facing the resultant repercussions is the risk I take to find inner peace.
One time, I used the small spoon for my French onion soup.
That is my admission to the world. My confession.
I don’t think anyone noticed at the time; my embarrassing yet thankfully secret faux-pas, hidden from prying eyes.
Or if they did, their silence remained golden, allowing me to continue unaware of my social and moral depravity, the errors of my ways. Allowing me to save face.
Narrowly avoiding dinning room pariah status.
My uncouthness dawned on me upon completion of the last slurp. It’s always the last slurp that gives it away, isn’t it?
The soft white cheese, trailing from my beard to the erroneous coffee spoon, a lonely strand, like Capilano, a bridge to my error, swaying to and fro – a dead giveaway.
My dinning room blunder of epic proportions.
With furtive glances strewn about, I quickly licked my little spoon clean and tucked it deftly back on the table from whence it came. My esteemed table-mates none the wiser, ensconced in their animated conversations.
You can’t hide from yourself. You can’t lie to yourself.
I knew it. I’ve known it for a while. I didn’t want it face it.
But as sure as you’ll always see a reflection staring back at you from the bathroom mirror the Truth will always find a way.
And it was staring right back at me.
I knew I needed to watch Pretty Woman again.