When I was a teenager, I broke my knee when attempting a pirouette on driveway stones. I’d never taken a single ballet lesson, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
My sisters and I were playing around outside, and I was showing off while trying to one-up them with my stellar dance talent. I had envisioned myself as a ballerina elegantly making her way across a stage.
However, my imagined graceful spin probably looked more like comedy slapstick as my kneecap collided with the ground. The pain didn’t hit me until I tried to stand up.
This was the universe’s first attempt at trying to teach me humility that day. Unfortunately, being a slow learner, I was sent another teachable moment shortly after I ignored this one.
My lavish spiral turned bone-breaking failure caused me to endure a cast that went from just below my right buttcheek down to the top of my ankle. Why did it need to be that large of a cast? I don’t know.
Was this the universe’s second attempt at trying to capture my attention once again? Maybe. Or maybe the doctor had a twisted sense of humour and envisioned my monumental embarrassing moment to come.
With the clarity of hindsight, I’m betting on the former rather than the latter, though.
It was embarrassing when my jeans needed to be slit up the front by the doctor because my knee was too swollen for them to be removed. Then I had to lay there for a few hours while my entire right leg was tediously plaster-wrapped. My bladder felt as if it would explode by the time the cast was completed.
I hobbled out on my new crutches through the waiting room and into the single-occupancy bathroom. I was thankful at first to find it was handicap-accessible. I thought the grab bars surrounding the higher toilet would make it easy for me.
With my right leg now weighing a million pounds, I tried to perch on top of the elongated toilet seat with its open front. However, the universe was not through with me yet. My cast wedged itself onto the seat’s right tongue. I only realized what happened when I felt a sharp pinch at the back of my thigh.
I looked down to see my stark-white, heavy-as-hell cast leg wedged onto the toilet seat. The painful pinch wasn’t distracting enough to stop what would happen next.
By this point, my bladder was tired of waiting and let loose.
I sat there attempting to lean forward enough so I’d hit the bowl without success. I bolted upright again when I felt that pinch intensify. Consequently, I peed all over my leg, new cast, and the doctor’s bathroom floor.
Feeling ashamed, I then realized I was wet, smelled like urine, and still clamped to a toilet.
I felt like crying. No matter how I tried to twist or turn, I couldn’t free myself. I was trapped. And the thought of anyone rescuing me was mortifying.
But then a giggle escaped my throat.
I was locked in a bathroom. Alone. And completely skewered onto a toilet seat. It was all absurdity. My entire day had been one embarrassment after another.
And what I learned was this: Embarrassment is how the universe reminds us to keep our pride in check — to quit taking ourselves so darn seriously.
It took the universe three attempts to finally grab my full attention. She continued to up the anty each time. Eventually, providing the weird and awkward did the trick.
The Takeaway
Reflecting on this entire dance-move-gone-wrong has taught me a lot about humility. As a teenager, I often believed the world revolved around me alone.
“Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real.” — Thomas Merton
I’ve learned that when I get lost in myself and my perspectives, I don’t stay open to learning from others’ thoughts and ideas. Being humble is necessary for me to keep an open mind and an open heart.
Humility brokers my empathy. Any time I suffer embarrassment, I’m reminded to view the world from another’s perspective. An embarrassing moment is a mere speck when comparing it to many other people’s strife.
Every time I enter a single-occupancy bathroom, I remember my toilet seat adventure, and a grin crosses my face. It’s essential not to take oneself too seriously.
It’s important to be humble.
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