I’ve spent a lot of time writing about my journey into fosterhood lately. Mostly because I’m SUPER excited about it and can’t wait. But today I thought I’d remind you all why this blog was named after Murphy — namely because when it comes to me, Murphy doesn’t just have a law but a full-on war.
A while back I shared my first experience with flashing . . . errr, wardrobe malfunctions. Yeah, that was fun. At the ripe old age of 16 I was already well versed in humiliation. Unfortunately that was not the end of my road as a flasher. Nope. There was the following year when my high school show choir was performing, complete with girls dressed in sequin-covered halter dresses, and my halter hooks snagged on the sequins and busted free in the middle of our performance at the local nursing home. But as we’ve all learned, I take the concept of “the show must go on” very seriously.
But all of that was nothing compared to the embarrassment I experienced in Orlando. It was nearing Christmas, and probably warmer there than it is right now in Syracuse. Ah, how I miss the Florida sunshine. Anyway, our church was rehearsing for a musical, a great show about a single mom in the 1930’s struggling to provide a good Christmas for her son. It was Sunday, so after a full day of orchestrating kids ministry, I went out to eat with an amazing group of people I was lucky enough to have as friends and then went back to church for rehearsal.
Rehearsal was off to a great start. Everything was coming together and I was getting excited for our performance. It was nearing the end of rehearsal and we decided to go through one more big number. It was set in an department store filled with both clerks and shoppers. I was playing the mom in the story and at the end of the song I hopped up onto a cart next to the piles of goods. Because the cart rolled, one actor was stationed behind it to hold it steady as I jumped up. Then everyone else on stage angled towards me, pointing their arms my way as I flung my arms high for the finale. That’s when it happened.
I was wearing a new shirt. I can still remember it. Chocolate brown, 3/4 length sleeves, with little silver rectangles which snapped up the front. It was my first time wearing it. And when I flung my arms wide in a high V for the big finish every one of those dang snaps popped open. Every single one. In rapid fire from top to bottom, as if someone had shot them off. And there I was, sitting pretty on the cart with a cast of 30 all focused on me. Did I mention that I was on staff at this church? Yeah. I was their pastor. Let that sink in. I was their pastor and I was flashing them all. Fantastic. Fan freaking tastic.
Everyone was too stunned to know what to do. You would think that all these good Christian people would have had the wherewithal to turn away, but apparently they were in a state of PTSD. Only one person seemed to be free from the shock. Dear George, who is kind of my adopted dad. He was the one stationed behind the counter I was sitting on. Faster than I would have imagined possible he leapt from behind the cart and stood in front of me. He spread his arms out as if protecting me from a bullet, while I tried to quickly reattach all those snaps.
Somehow I managed to show my face again at church, although I’m not sure how. Two things I can tell you: First, that shirt went the way of my green romper and was never seen again. And second, to this day I always have on a tank top underneath what I’m wearing. I’ve had enough flashing experiences to learn my lesson.