Mailbox Moments

This goes out to InkMom who called out for embarrassing moments. Please, feel free to share yours as well.

My junior year of high school, I had a super crush on a very cute senior trumpet player. Somehow I scored free symphony tickets, so of course I asked him to go. He said yes and we had a good time. I dropped him off and proceeded to back into his mailbox. That is embarrassing enough, but it gets worse. Much worse.

Fortunately he had gone in before I backed into the mailbox. I got out, gave the box a once over and a good shake. It seemed intact and in relatively good condition, so I gave a small prayer of thanks, and went home to consider how best to explain the scratch in my father's car.

The following Monday was AP Biology, the only class I shared with said trumpet player. I walked in a few minutes early and before Mr. Trumpet. Another student grins at me and says:

You know, you're an excellent driver. Those darn mailboxes just jump out in front of you.

A look of horror crosses my face. He continues:

Funny thing, some friends and I were goofing off late Saturday night and we saw the strangest thing. This car backed right into Mr. Trumpet's mailbox.

Most of the class, who had all arrived at this point, breaks out laughing. Just then, Mr. Trumpet himself walks in and somebody hollers:

Hey! How's your mailbox.

I've gone bright red and am cowering in my seat at this point. Mr. Trumpet looks slightly befuddled.

How did you know about my mailbox?

What happened to it? Someone asks.

It just fell off!

I sink lower in my chair. The bell mercifully rings and the teacher calls the class to order. We're having a test. I cannot even breathe. I randomly fill in the multiple choice bubble, ask to use the rest room and run for a pay phone. I called my mother, in tears, for advice. The only possible solution was obvious. I had to tell him before someone else did. I took a deep breath and headed back to Biology. After class, I asked to talk to him. I explained the whole thing, he laughed, and I offered to replace his mailbox.

It gets worse.

I put off and put off replacing his mailbox until my father forced me to go. It was Senior Prom night, and I was dateless. So, there I was, handing screws to my father at Mr. Trumpet's house as he came out in his tux, waved and left to pick up his date.

His twin brother of course immortalized my embarrassment in my year book with simple four words:

Thanks for the mailbox.

I'll save my other mailbox encounters for another post.