Hindsight Is Hilarity

Note: While this story is intended to be a coming of age story with humor, mature themes are discussed in this story that do not include profanity or explicit language.

Though it was certainly not the first time I prayed, it was probably my most desperate prayer for forgiveness for something I realized I probably did not need to be forgiven. Maybe only God, Jesus, and my deceased relatives could see me doing it. So, it was entirely possible that any of them could show up in one of my parents’ dreams and tell them what I was doing.

It is a first time we talk about far less than any firsts in our lives. It is a first time that no one really celebrates or observes annually on a calendar. Well, they may celebrate it without being aware that what they are doing is in honor of their first experience. And yes, it is a first that just about any writing contest could not be won in writing about it. But, it is a first so unique and personal to every individual, that one would be advised not to frame it nor dedicate a page in a scrapbook to it.

Yes, it gets easier and more enjoyable the more that you do it. Yet, it doesn’t give you the courage to brag about your years of experience in doing it.

It was a secret that I guarded more than wetting the bed at my best friend’s house when I was in elementary school and tried to hide it. I buried the evidence of the bedding in the bottom of his hamper hoping that it would dry and the odor would dissipate before it was time for his mother to wash everything in the hamper. Though, I later learned that his mom did know about it. In her infinitely tender heart, she did not want to shame me. She did not want me to bear the embarrassment of my knowing that she knew that I wet the bedding. I only found out that she knew about it from my best friend, who is still my best friend. Forty-five years after it happened, he told me what she knew all along.

But, while both secrets may be bound by the rites of passage that bridge boyhood and manhood, only one of the two was by choice. Though, it was a choice that some talked about as though anyone who committed it had a criminal record for doing it.

Yet, no one ever talked about doing it themselves. There were no competitions for those with experience nor belts, certificates, or degrees for those who could “master” it.

It was endorsed by our Surgeon General in 1994 and it is not taxed! Yet, it was never formally endorsed in my family like a play I should audition for or a sport for which I should try out. Nope, there were no worries about either “making the team” or “getting cut from the team.”

So, did Mom know? Did Dad know? Did either of them know and they did not want to shame me with the embarrassment I would feel from them knowing? If my sister knew, she would not hold back in letting me know that she knew. Yes, every conversation at the dinner table would be met with an inquisitive euphemism regarding that which I tried so desperately to keep a secret.

“Son, you should try these poached eggs,” Mom would implore. “I think you will like them.”

“Speaking of poached eggs, have you poached yours yet today brother?” my sister would shout with unreserved laughter.

“You never told me that you can poach an egg my son,” my mother would reply feeling pained that I kept any culinary secret from her.

Secret? Yes. Culinary? Definitely not.

“Uh, hunting Mom. Sometimes, I have illegally poached eggs in the wild. I didn’t want you to know. I’m looking forward to the day that you teach me how to poach an egg,” I would say so quickly that it would overwhelm her into a state of stupefaction that would give me enough time to run out the door to school without her having a chance to say any more.

If Dad knew, his first clue was how quickly we were running out of paper towels. His second clue would have been my frequency of sleepwalking to the basement where I unconsciously turned on the television before I lay down on the sofa.

For as many euphemisms as there are that exist for the practice itself, there need to be just as many, if not more, icebreakers available for parents in discussing it with their teens. Heck, Toastmasters could even have a whole module of speeches on it.

“And that was the first time I poached an egg. Mr. Toastmaster…”

There are many manuals that exist for many products, skills, and interests. Ownership manuals with product guarantees. Manuals for certifications. And, if the manuals themselves don’t have troubleshooting sections within them, there are separate troubleshooting manuals for just about any concern. Many include a helpline as well. Yet, I was never provided a genuine owner’s manual for this product that has been with me my entire life. There has been no troubleshooting telephone number for it that costs less than ninety-nine cents a minute. And there is no lifetime guarantee for parts that include replacement or repair either.

I don’t know what I was exactly praying for as I have not completely lost my vision, my acne went away, and I have never been mistaken for a werewolf upon shaking the hand of another human being.

Why did it have to have such a long name? They might as well just call it Voldemort as it seems to be “that-which-must-not-be-named.” And, if you take the word “wand” out of any book with a theme relating to magic, one would think that the book was talking more about poaching an egg than performing magic.

Well, if they knew about it when I was a teen while living under the same roof as them, they must certainly know about it now from their vantage point in being able to see me doing whatever it is I do wherever it is that I am. Nothing has struck me yet from above. So, if hindsight has taught me anything, it is that it is okay to paint a pretty picture every now and then. You can be a master painter no matter your artistic ability. You can shuck the corn even if you are not a farmer. And, no one really cares whether or not you can poach an egg if they even understand what it really means to “poach an egg.”