The Time I Sat in the Beans

Here we go again.

This past weekend while at an event, I hit the buffet, filled a plate, and then immediately sat in it.

Even I’m not sure quite how it happened.

“This story doesn’t leave the room,” I told those sitting around me, all of whom were watching as my delighted 14-year-old niece swiped napkins over the affected area, trying to help minimize the damage even as she overtly gloried in the absurdity of the moment.

But who was I kidding? They could tell whoever they wanted.

I was probably going to write about it anyway, I told them.

Because that’s what I do. I embarrass myself and then write about it. It’s a rhythm that works for me. And, the way I see it, a way of controlling the narrative.

No one can threaten to spill the beans on you if you preemptively spill them yourself.

And then sit in them, apparently.

On the drive home from the event, my niece and I re-hashed the big moment.

I shook my head. “I can’t believe I sat on that plate of food.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I already texted a bunch of people.”

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I’m tempted to say “I’ll never live this down,” but the truth is that something will come along soon enough to overwrite this story with a new one.

Case in point:

When I texted my sister Bethany to tell her I’d sat in a plate of food at a party, she asked if this was better or worse than the time I’d walked the boardwalk in a small coastal town without knowing I had an entire slice of American cheese stuck to my butt.

I’d actually forgotten all about this story, but she had not.

Because I’d written about it.

I’ve searched my archives from that era, but I can no longer find my original draft of this story. The details are lost to the mists of my memory—a hazy zone at the best of times.

Though I know when it happened and whom I was with, I can now no longer recall who noticed the cheese slice or how they brought it to my attention.

Was it my travel companion? The friends we had met for dinner? An observant passerby? An eagle-eyed fisherman on the docks?

Perhaps it’s best that I can’t remember.

What I do recall is the mixture of horror and hilarity with which I received the news that I’d just been waltzing down the boardwalk with a bright orange square of processed cheese affixed like a barnacle to my black-cotton-skirted behind.

I remember standing there trying to look unobtrusive while my friends clustered around, leaning down to inspect the situation.

When we finally peeled the cheese slice off, it had the print of fabric fibers embedded in its surface.

Completely undignified.

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So on the Ruth Scale of Embarrassment, sitting on a plate of food wasn’t that bad, all things considered.

By the next day, I’d practically forgotten about it. That is, until someone asked if I’d eaten my breakfast that morning or sat in it.

Which is a fair question, given that the night before, I’d seated myself directly on my plate of barbeque and beans in full view of God and everybody.

At least, that’s how the story goes.

But the truth is a bit more complicated.

While we were driving home that night—after she’d admitted that she’d “already texted a bunch of people” the story—my niece admitted something else.

“I could tell from the way everyone was talking that they thought you’d sat in baked beans. I knew it was just barbeque sauce because you don’t eat baked beans. But I didn’t correct them.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Beans is funnier.”

And you know what?

She’s right.

Beans is funnier.

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