Commotion broke out behind me when I opened my package of Little Debbie. Perhaps, someone screamed. My long brown hair was wet, inexplicably wet, with sticky foam. It was one of those things we watch happen to us, our reactions delayed, without realizing what an unfortunate situation we find ourselves in.
Until everyone else is laughing. And laughing. And laughing at us.
The boy who spewed viscous matter all over my head gaped in awe at his prolific eruption, holding the incriminating evidence in one hand. His co-hort glowered at him and whispered, “I told you not to get that out.” But, even he had hints of mockery at the upturned corners of his mouth when he looked at me.
The boys were snatched up and marched to the principal’s office, but I was stranded. No relief. Ooze drying in my hair, I spent the rest of the school day smelling the stink of his randy ejaculation.
And, the whole thing replayed again last night, in front of a room full of men. A board room, no less, and me at the head of the table. The female leader. The example of Rotary dignity and decorum. In the midst of my provocative discussion of bottom lines and financial ratios, a grown man spewed on me. My face. Another bullseye in the center of my left boob. Much snickering. One downright cackle.
It was third grade all over again, only I smelled like Miller High Life instead of Orange Crush.