Parents are meant to embarrass you when you’re growing up, it’s a perk of having children that I intend to take full advantage of if I reproduce.
My mother was no exception to this rule and I don’t blame her. I’d find it bloody hilarious to make my child turn burgundy with shame as I shared stories with their friends of some of the cringe worthy things they had done before they cared what anyone thought or felt the need to conform to society’s expectations. But the best thing about her particular method was that she was often completely unaware it was embarrassing.
When I was about nine years old and rather impressionable I enjoyed mimicking a selection of movie and music stars, but one stood out above the rest. Iggy Pop, of course.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the name, he is a rather overt American singer with flowing locks, well known for strutting his topless, veiny body on stage and pulling a selection of obscure expressions. Why on earth don’t more young girls model themselves on the fine specimen below?
Ok, so of all the celebrities you’d think a schoolgirl would imitate, perhaps Iggy doesn’t immediately spring to mind, but at the time it made sense. He was skinny and had long hair and so did I – the similarities were uncanny.
Simply admiring the Popster’s work wasn’t enough for me, I wanted to model myself on him and imitate his signature moves by whipping my top off and strutting my stuff. But this was just something I did occasionally in the safety of my home. Call it a hobby, if you will.
I must also add that luckily I was yet to hit puberty or develop breasts, otherwise this anecdote would be far more disturbing.
But when I reached my teens and appearance and style became everything, I no longer talked about my Iggy Pop past. Now I can look back and laugh and revel in ’embracing the idiotic’, but at the time I could think of nothing more cripplingly embarrassing than sharing this with my peers. My secret was far from safe, however, as my mother thought it would be perfectly acceptable to remind me of the strutting.
On multiple occasions when friends came over and the conversation turned to anything remotely linked to dancing, hair, music and so on, she would say: “Oh don’t you remember when you used to saunter about topless and pretend you were Iggy Pop?”
Cheers mum, thanks for bringing that up at this really inappropriate time.
Even worse, perhaps, is being shamed in front of near strangers. Once my mother took me to the doctors – post the Iggy phase – because I was complaining of ear ache. A seemingly straightforward ailment, hopefully requiring a short chat and some antibiotics.
After the prescription was written I stood up to leave. But my mother still had a burning question she wanted answered.
“Just one last thing,” she said. “When my daughter does poohs they are massive.”
Good grief, how horrifyingly unexpected! Where did this outburst come from? But she didn’t stop there, her description needed further detail.
“I mean, they’re absolutely huge – elephant-sized almost. I even have to use the toilet brush to chop them into little pieces in fear they might cause a blockage. Is this normal?”
I sat aghast, mouth open in amazement and squirming with discomfort. Such a graphic and unnecessarily elaborated explanation. Surely there was a more delicate way of handling this highly sensitive subject.
I’ll have to try hard to achieve that level of parental shaming with my offspring.
Embracing the idiotic 