board77

I’ll start


Back when I was around 10 or 11, I took gymnastics. The place had quite a good reputation and was in this huge warehouse, all concrete and metal girders, tumbling mats. The sorts of materials that made it echoey. Acoustics like a cathedral.

A few months into my training, we got a visit from a girl who was on the National Team and it was a BIG deal. All us little girls were attempting to impress her, trying harder than we ever had before. I mean, there was a possibility she could be in the next Olympics!

In all my rotations around the various equipment, she was always somewhere else, helping some other little girl. Not that I minded all that much; I couldn’t do bars yet, and was only okay and floor and vault. It was when I rotated onto the beam that I finally had my chance and I was so excited as beam was my best.

So I get in line and find out we’re practicing handstand with slow splits on the medium height beam. She’s spotting each girl from behind, hands on their waists to keep them steady and I *know* I can do better than all of them. This was my forte - balance, flexibility, strength.

I was going to do the best handstand slow split, not just in that class, but that she had ever seen. She was going to recommend me to the best gymnastics coaches based on that one move alone, that’s how good it was going to be.


Finally, it was my turn. Jumped up, quite elegantly, walked down the beam with grace and balance. This was going very well. Did the initial handstand and it was perfect. Straight back, shoulders away from the ears and nary a wobble.

She settled her hands on my waist to spot me for the splits and I was determined to show that I didn’t need it. Tightened my stomach muscles as much as I could, clenched my butt and slowly, with perfect control, started the splits.

And slowly, with perfect control, came a squeaky whistle, like air being carefully released from a balloon.

“Don’t worry,” she told me, “we all fart sometimes.”

So I continued the movement, determined to be as professional as she was despite the fact that I was literally “whistling” in her face.

The whistle continued, a slow, controlled and seemingly endless release. And her hands started shaking.... and her voice.

“H-h-h-hold on. Slow and steadyyyyyyy”

At that, I decided to just get it over and done with, whipped my legs open to full splits, and my god, that nicely controlled, *soft* whistle turned into the start of Gerwhin’s Rhapsody in Blue instantly.

I mean, this was epic. Movie sound engineers would’ve given anything to record this. It was the Wilhelm scream of farts, and the acoustics of the gym only magnified it. It wailed, it had vibrato. That thing supplied its own applause it was so powerful. Trumpeters would weep to produce sound like that. Armies could be called to war. Kings and queens announced. Clouds would part.

Nothing like that should have come out of an 11 year old girl, let alone directly into the face of one of the best gymnasts in the country.

But I stayed on. I kept my balance. I held that split handstand with a desperation to impress, as if somehow, by staying there, I wouldn’t lose what little dignity I had left.

The National Team gymnast was on the floor, not just crying, but doing that choking laugh that people do when they can’t actually get enough breath to make noise. Every adult - coaches and parents - every teenager and every child had heard it. Apparently, it could be heard outside the main doors. All were laughing, and I was frozen, upside down, in the the echo of just how musically powerful my ass was.

After what felt like forever, the girl I had so wanted to impress waved a hand vaguely in my direction and managed to force out the word “down.”

So I put my legs back together, did the most perfect dismount I could manage, hit the floor with a thud, and as my legs straightened, my ass decided to give one last, decidedly unmusical honk just as I put my arms up and back in the traditional girl gymnast ending to a routine.

And that was the day I quit gymnastics.

Belly-aching with laughter!

Oh my looooorrrddie lord!!!

*wipes eyes*

I can't beat that. I'll have to think hard and will be back.

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No. No, this is it. I can't even come close. It is the acme, the platonic ideal of embarrassing childhood stories.

I was going to post it on HoF since there’s more traffic there, but didn’t think it would be allowed under the vulgarity rules.

Still want to hear other people’s stories though

I'm dying. I'm so glad I haven't put my mascara on yet.

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LalaithUrwen wrote:

I'm dying. I'm so glad I haven't put my mascara on yet.

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oh this is brilliant. I will need to think of something but I’m sure I have an embarrassing memory. On a different note, every time my granddaughter farts she grabs her diaper and says I poop

Ara-anna wrote:

oh this is brilliant. I will need to think of something but I’m sure I have an embarrassing memory. On a different note, every time my granddaughter farts she grabs her diaper and says I poop

LOL! That’s fantastic

And do think of something. I can’t be the only one posting embarrassing memories

My story is not the epic blow-out that Jen's is. No bells or whistles . Nothing SCENTsational. No feats of skill. No famous or nearly famous persons to impress , and not really embarrassing, just one father to deceive...

When I was between the ages of about 7-9, my sister (who was a year younger) and I shared a bedroom. We had twin beds and we would whisper back & forth and giggle for a bit before we fell asleep. We lived in a tri-level home, which had 6 stairs between the living room (where my dad was watching TV) and the bedrooms. He had yelled up the stairs for us to go to sleep and warned us that if he had to come up there we were going to regret it. So my sister & I decided to put her 3' tall Raggedy Ann doll in my bed with the covers up to her 'chin' and I went over to her bed next to the wall so we could whisper even more quietly. Either my father had great hearing or we were not quiet enough because he came up the stairs and stood in the doorway. Fortunately for us he didn't turn on the lights. He told us that if we didn't stop talking and go to sleep we were going to get a beating. Then he looked at 'me' (Raggedy Ann) and pointed his finger and said, "And D...., if you don't wipe that shit-eating grin off your face I'll come in there and wipe it off for you." We almost died. A few of you know what I look like. Suffice to say I don't think it's anything like this: My sister & I never told him.

RoseMorninStar wrote:

My story is not the epic blow-out that Jen's is. No bells or whistles . Nothing SCENTsational. No feats of skill. No famous or nearly famous persons to impress , and not really embarrassing, just one father to deceive...

Hahahahaha!!! Brilliant. Oh, I miss nerdy puns

“RoseMorninStar” wrote:

When I was between the ages of about 7-9, my sister (who was a year younger) and I shared a bedroom. We had twin beds and we would whisper back & forth and giggle for a bit before we fell asleep. We lived in a tri-level home, which had 6 stairs between the living room (where my dad was watching TV) and the bedrooms. He had yelled up the stairs for us to go to sleep and warned us that if he had to come up there we were going to regret it. So my sister & I decided to put her 3' tall Raggedy Ann doll in my bed with the covers up to her 'chin' and I went over to her bed next to the wall so we could whisper even more quietly. Either my father had great hearing or we were not quiet enough because he came up the stairs and stood in the doorway. Fortunately for us he didn't turn on the lights. He told us that if we didn't stop talking and go to sleep we were going to get a beating. Then he looked at 'me' (Raggedy Ann) and pointed his finger and said, "And D...., if you don't wipe that shit-eating grin off your face I'll come in there and wipe it off for you." We almost died. A few of you know what I look like.
My sister & I never told him.

Oh wow! That is amazing. I love it

That's really funny, Rose!

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Oh dear, Rose!

I don't have many embarrassing stories, in that I was pretty hard to embarrass as a kid.

But this one - I was 14 at the time. My uncle had a lovely standard poodle. Pedigreed and everything. Every so often, he'd find a suitable male poodle and sell the puppies.

This was pre-internet, so finding that suitable male took a bit of effort, but my mom was a one-woman Facebook. So she took the case.

That's the backstory.

So I was walking with my mom along the picturesque riverside promenade. Along comes a respectable man with a beautiful standard poodle on a leash. My mom, a woman on a mission, walks right up to him.

"Excuse me," says she, "are you looking for a girl by any chance?"

The man's mouth falls open. He looks from my mom to the teenaged me with abject horror. I just stand there with angelic innocence through which my mother's words are filtering but slowly.

"For your poodle," my mother tells him sternly.

I don't remember what happened next, but neither is my mother allowed to forget.

That's awfully funny Frelga. There are so many jokes to be told in regards to breeding bitches.

I can't share. It's story fodder. All of it.

Yes, even that. Although I would totally change the names and circumstances. I'm not an idiot.

Awwwww