Last night I threw up on someone. He was really understanding about the whole thing, but I still felt extremely embarrassed and rather bad about the mess I made. If we need to talk about what’s more gross, I think I’d beat out all of Oso’s tales of alcohol-induced vomiting… even the time he threw up on his friend sleeping in the bunk below him and definitely worse than blowing chunks on my car. The whole mess got me thinking about my most embarrassing moments and put me in a High Fidelity mood.

Top 5 most embarrassing moments:

Five: The Rose Bowl
On January 1, 1999 the UCLA Bruins played against the Wisconsin Badgers at the Rose Bowl. Back then, the UCLA football team was initially ranked number 1 in the nation and I was in the UCLA Band. It was the first year of the BCS system and we were undefeated all season until we played a late-season game against Miami. The game was supposed to be in September, but it was postponed because of a hurricane (Mitch? maybe). Anyway, the consolation prize was the Rose Bowl which meant staying in town and getting up hella early for the 5+ mile parade through Pasadena. After the parade, we’d still have to play at the Rose Bowl.

I began walking along the sideline like I’d done half a dozen times before for home games. I was supposed to be at the 20 yard line because that’s where my pod lined up for the pre-game show. Once in our spiral pods, we run out high-stepping down the field and spell out UCLA (we’d end up in cursive letters at the end of the show, visual, I was always in the link between the U and C).

The Wisconsin Badgers were warming up. Some random player went out for a pass and ran into the sideline where he slammed into me. He didn’t even apologize and just ran back out onto the field with the ball. I, on the other hand, was shaken up and then freaked out when I saw the condition of my beloved trombone. Someone who was nearby said I looked as if someone had hurt my baby. I cried… a lot. My trombone was all bent out of shape and I couldn’t play it because there was now a hole where two parts of the trombone linked up. Others tried to calm me down, and quick because I still needed to march in the pregame show. One of the trombone players who wasn’t quite good enough to be in the pregame show lent me his trombone for the day and I sucked up my sadness… at least until UCLA lost the game.

Four: Cindyitis strikes again
The summer before 9th grade, I took a trip with my parents and the high school band to Australia. We stayed in Sydney with families, but traveled to other parts of Southeast Australia for concerts or day trips. One evening, we had a barbeque at a small petting zoo. I volunteered during a sheep shearing demonstration. I went up to the stage with my brother, Danny. Although the stage was not too high, we still had to step on bales of hay to climb up. The bales were covered with coarse brown blankets so you couldn’t tell where one bale ended and the other began. Danny jumped off the stage and over the bales. I considered doing the same but then thought twice of it because I know I’m extremely clumsy and was likely to fall on my face. So, I stepped on a bale and began to do the exact same thing I was trying to avoid. I fell face forward and hit my knee in front of a bunch of people, including the guy I had a crush on at the time.

Three: Blowing chunks
Last night, after the Dodger vs. Diamondbacks game, I vomited up all of my chicken tacos, rice, beans and beer on the guy I’m seeing. No, I was not drunk. He was rather grossed out but pretty understanding for a guy who just had my dinner all over him.

Two: the Cheater
I got caught cheating on a test about the “discovery” of the Americas in 8th grade. Gasp! Yes, I was one of those kids who did anything to be the best in her class. Well, all the kids in the “honors” class (oh, the irony) were cheaters. Our tests in that class were oral. Mrs. Isaacson would ask each question once and if you missed it, you could ask her to repeat the question at the end of the test. This test was no different. The thing was, whenever someone asked for a repeated question, she’d only pay attention to that student. Kids on the other side of the room would begin whispering and sharing answers. That’s how Marc and I got caught.

In the middle of whispering “San Salvador” to Marc across the aisle, Isaacson turned to me and said, “what are you doing?”

I froze.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

Someone behind me whispered, “say you needed an eraser.” It didn’t matter, I was already convinced that coming out of the situation unscathed was extremely unlikely. Apparently, though the cat did have our tongues neither of us could come up with a coherent sentence. Isaacson began to accuse us of cheating, as we remained silent. She picked up Marc’s test and then mine, glanced over each and then ripped them up.

“You’ll be getting a zero on this test. Wait outside while I finish up with this test, and then I’ll figure out what else to do with you two.”

Marc remained stoic as she continued with her tirade. I on the other hand have always been emotional, perhaps too emotional. I learned as a kid that sometimes tears would work as a guilt trip on my parents. Maybe I thought that tears would convince Isaacson to have pity on us. As I thought about all the consequences I began to cry. They weren’t little tears either, but big, noisy sobs complete with hiccups as I gasped for air. I looked around for someone with a tissue and a sympathetic classmate gave me one to blow my nose. Now, I was embarrassed for crying like a baby and scared because I had been caught cheating.

One: Dancing debacle
I used to dance with a Folklórico group. We performed at a church carnival at my home parish when I was about 12 or 13. The stage we were dancing on was really small and rickety. I was so fixated on the routine that I didn’t realize that I was getting too close to the edge. Suddenly, I found my self falling off the short stage and onto a bench adjacent to the stage. Now, if that sounds bad, it is, but it’s no the worst thing that happened. Three kids (4-6 years old) were seated on the bench. Poor kids broke my fall. It hurt. I was crying, the kids were crying and I had a severely bruised pre-teen ego.

Preface: this was actually an assignment I wrote for my Bilingual Autobiography: Comedy y Cultura seminar during the fall 2000 quarter. On the first day of class the instructor asked us to introduce ourselves, but to tell more about ourselves than just our name, year and major(s). She wanted us to include things like our physical appearance, hobbies, music we liked, family, etc. While we did this, she took note of words or phrases that stuck out from each person’s intro. For me she picked “short brown hair and stuff” which was all I used to describe my appearance.

Short brown hair and stuff…

At the young age of six, I was already a hard-core rebel, ready to put anything on the line to get my way. Well, I wasn’t fighting for la causa, but I was fighting for freedom, that is to wear my long, shiny brown hair the way I wished. I complained to my mom, about having my hair done in the same boring style every morning: two symmetrical braids tied with ligas. I hated those braids more than the morning ritual itself.

Each morning at precisely 7:23 she would begin the traumatic routine. First, she would meticulously part my waist-length hair with a comb or a pencil. Then she’d pull my hair tightly while I cringed. That little movement would result in a nagging “¡No te muevas!” After scolding me, she’d braid my soft hair into two neat braids. If I was lucky it would be quick and over before I could even think about how much I detested those braids.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I truly believed that those two snakes of hair down my back made me look like a baby. I was convinced that my brother’s cute friend, Juan, wouldn’t like a girl who looked like she was still in diapers. So, I took inspiration from all those Chicanas and Chicanos who walked out of East LA Schools in ’68 and said “¡Ya basta!” I didn’t care if I looked like a greñuda; I wanted my waist length coffee colored hair to flow in the wind as I chased Juan around the blacktop… free!

Well, when you’re six Mom has the last word. The deal was that if I wanted to “free” my pelo lasio I’d have to cut it short. Fine, if that was the price I’d have to pay for freedom then I’d chop it off. So, my mom marched me off to get a “boy cut” from my Tía Luisa who was in beauty school at the time. I came out of her home with a horrifying bowl/mushroom cut. Bottom line is I hated it. But, its hair and it grows.

Fast-forward 12 years. Throughout high school I had long hair. I cut it in the “Rachel” style a few times, but it was never short. I had made up my mind that I would never cut my hair any higher than shoulder length. You see, my hair has always been a sense of pride for me. Since I was a kid, people have envied its healthiness, shininess and length. In middle school my friend, Ana, used to make me pretend I was a Pantene Pro-V model. I also felt that in order for me to be a mujer I needed to have the long hair that my grandfather and father loved so much. The long hair was a sense of security for me. Since I have never felt too confident about my figure, I thought that I could hide behind long and beautiful hair.

The summer before my first year at UCLA, I got a haircut from my Tía Luisa, again. And even though I didn’t want it to be so short, she cut it short. Well, it was chin length. And you know what, I kind of liked it. It didn’t look so bad. I could save money on shampoo, it was low maintenance and it was perfect for the summer. Now, I like having “short brown hair and stuff.” By stuff I mean the too-small plain brown eyes, my mom’s cute nose, the lunares or beauty marks on my cheek, the “trombone lips” (as my mom would say), and even the slight scar on my cheek given to me by my cousin Veronica years ago. I like my small hands, small feet, the R shaped birthmark on my shin and the two dots that resemble eyes on my arm. All this “stuff” is what makes me, and I guess by learning to finally be comfortable with the length of my hair, I learned to be comfortable with this body that houses my soul.