Just not lest ye be judged on a stranger's blog.

We've all had moments where we've behaved in a way that would embarrass us later on in life. All of us. Don't act like you haven't. Stop it. You have.

For many of us, the majority of this unflattering behavior occurs during a time called "pre-teenager/teenager." It's expected and even somewhat tolerated during this time. However, the further a person gets from teenager time, the less accepted the ridiculous behavior becomes.

Case in point: This weekend at a baseball game I saw a grown man tear up his cash in front of a hot dog vendor to show his dissatisfaction with the vendor's slow service. To be clear: he tore up his own money.

The man was probably in his late-fifties/early-sixties, and the number one thing I felt was embarrassed for him. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I remember thinking: I can probably use this on my blog.

Of course, who knows the kind of night that guy was having. His team was down two runs, I will give him that. Maybe that vendor was actually an old arch-nemesis and he was just trying to return some money and bury the hatchet after the mining accident in Bulgaria, but when the guy blew him off, he was just like "Forget this!" and tore up the money.

You never know. 

I can say without question that I would not enjoy random strangers analyzing my stupid behavior on their blogs, or in their homes, or anywhere. But I'm sure it's happened. Especially because once I fell off a treadmill at the gym.

It's safe to say that, at one time or another, perfect strangers have sat around and told stories about something you did or said in public. Hopefully it was just a short little anecdote and not a story they tell every year at Thanksgiving.


A friend once told me a story about something that happened to her in high school (during the teenager time). She was getting ready for school one day, listening to radio, when the deejay started telling a story about a girl he'd seen in the mall the day before.

Apparently this girl was a real brat, yelling at her mother for not buying her a particular shirt. The deejay mentioned the store name, and the time of day, and described the atrocious behavior of the girl in hilarious detail.

It was my friend. The one in the story. She was listening to a stranger make fun of her on the radio. She knew it was her: the store, the time of day, the shirt . . . it was unquestionably her. She turned off the radio and never told anyone for a long, long time.

And then I told all of you. Because it's a good story.

So what do you think? Is someone out there telling a story about you right now? I bet that hot dog guy is telling a story about me . . . the nerve.