The Eternal Essence of Humiliation

Everything comes to an end.  That is an indisputable fact.  Of course there are exceptions to that rule (which I will discuss later); but, all in all, the truth is that nothing lasts forever.

For some things, that span of existence is incredibly short.  The Mayfly only spends a single day on this Earth.  Happily, their to-do list is relatively simple – eat, propagate, excrete, and die (tasks easily accomplished within twenty-four hours).  Most living creatures have lifespans that fall somewhere between that of the Mayfly and, say, the Black Coral, which can live more than 4000 years (yep, I Googled that one). 

Humans, of course, will die.  So will family pets, house plants, and viruses (eventually).  We all know that!  We accept it (usually begrudgingly, because it’s not a fun thing to think about).  What we don’t usually think about is the inevitable disappearance of non-living things.  Unfortunately, we are witnessing the all-too-rapid retreat of our planet’s glaciers. The most impressive mountain range will eventually be worn down by wind and water to become sand along some distant shore.  Even Earth itself has an eventual shelf-life. 

For Pete’s sake, one of these days, the Sun will cease to exist! (This will occur on April 12th of a year with too many zeroes to type reliably here, but it will happen.)

I have recently been reminded during my time in educational science that only two things cannot be destroyed — matter and energy. (Don’t quote me on this.  After all, I’m not an actual scientist, I just used to play one in elementary school classrooms; but it seems logical.)

I would like to submit, however, a third item to the list of things that cannot come to a natural end — humiliation.

Now, I’m not talking about simple everyday embarrassment here.  You know what I mean.  That “oh, jeez” moment when you discover you’ve been walking around that semi-formal event with the toilet paper dragging behind your highly polished Florsheim.  Or the moment you step away from the lectern in front of your entire company and discover your open fly. Or the occasional public flatulence (I have no personal knowledge of this, of course; just hearsay.)

Sure, you’d rather not experience this sort of embarrassing event, but you are well aware that, as a flawed human being, we all will, multiple times within our lifetime… and we will survive it.

Importantly, we, and the witnesses to these events, will also eventually forget about them! I’m not discussing those.  Why waste the time or energy?  I’m talking about those few times in our lifetimes that are truly humiliating.  Those are the events that develop a life of their own; that thrive and grow; and will, in time, become things of legend.

I offer you this example:

One holiday season some 30 years ago, my wife and I attended a lovely dinner party being hosted by a couple we had met through the theatre.  Guests included mutual friends, the hosts’ families, and probably some total strangers that heard the Christmas carols, smelled the food, and saw the decorations and invited themselves in (come on… you know there are people at these events that no one actually knows!… but I digress…)

The wonderful evening climaxed in a deliciously prepared sit-down meal around the hosts’ beautiful dining table – scrumptious, beautifully prepared and served.

We all took our seats and the Patriarch of the feast said grace (I, of course, dutifully bowed my head so I appeared to be praying and silently wondered what my White Elephant gift might fetch me in my next garage sale.)

The prayer was then followed by several jovial toasts:

“Here’s to a happy and healthy New Year!” proclaimed one guest.  We raised our glasses and drank.

“May you all spend time with loved ones and cherish their company,” stated another.  Another sip of wine.

“Over the lips and past the gums…” (you know the rest) loudly proclaimed one elderly lady who’d already imbibed about two and half bottles of Christmas cheer.

My wife nudged me.  “You should propose a toast to Sally’s mom.  She did most of the cooking and is getting no acknowledgement for that.”

“Why don’t you do it?” I smartly retorted.

“Because you’re so good at that sort of thing.”  The flattery, as always, began to chip away at my resolve.

“I don’t even know her name,” I responded, figuring this reasoning would save me from the moment of public speaking I was desperately trying to avoid.

My wife looked me unwaveringly in the eyes and responded, with total confidence, “Barbara. Her name is Barbara.”

Realizing that my dear spouse had thus disarmed the last arrow of resistance in my quiver of excuses, I slowly rose from my seat and picked up my glass of Merlot.  My wife assisted in drawing attention to me – clinking her spoon against her glass for what seemed to be 14 minutes (after all, dinner and conversation had already begun with an energy that rivaled any Bacchanalian orgy).

Finally, the table hubbub quieted and all eyes turned to me.  My fellow guests recognized my stance (posture erect, glass of intoxicant held high) as an imminent and important toast about to happen and they gave me their rapt attention.

I began:

“I’d just like to take a moment before we continue this fine feast to acknowledge the woman who did the bulk of the work for our enjoyment tonight.  The food is delicious and the presentation is impeccable.  Everybody, let’s raise a glass in thanks to our wonderful chef.  Here’s to Barbara!”

I drank heartily, feeling very proud of the lovely words I’d put together.  As I lowered my glass, however, I noted (almost immediately) that no one else was drinking.  They were, instead, looking perplexedly around the table.

Our hostess leaned over to me and in the best stage whisper I had ever heard simply said, “Who’s Barbara?”

“Your mother,” I quickly replied. (What a silly question!)

A pause.

“My mother’s name is Phyllis.”

I looked back to my wife, who at that moment was somehow incredibly interested in her Potatoes au Gratin.

“Ah…sorry,” I replied to my hostess and silently returned to my seat and began to eat.  (To be perfectly fair to my wife, the Potatoes au Gratin were spectacular.)

Now one might think that this might have become one of those fleeting moments of embarrassment that I discussed before.  But… no.

The episode quickly became a topic to be revisited by all who were in attendance.  It was a safe bet for a sustained and hearty belly laugh.  It became a holiday tradition among varied parts of our culture to find a time during the holidays to raise a glass and loudly proclaim: “Let’s hear it for Barbara” (invariably to be followed by extended moments of hilarity).

So this returns to my initial premise: Humiliation, like energy and the smallest particles of matter, is eternal.

If, after my demise, my wishes for cremation and the scattering of my ashes to the deep blue sea was to be vetoed for some reason, and I found myself buried in a plot in some cemetery dedicated to the religiously ambiguous, I am certain that my gravestone would read:

Here Lies
GREGORY COHEN
Beloved Husband, Friend, and Thespian
(and a great admirer of “Barbara”)
Hahahahahahahaha!

And, that epitaph, no doubt would never, ever fade.