Embarrassing Moments and the One-Minute Rule

Ever had an embarrassing moment like glancing in the mirror after a meeting only to discover a rogue piece of spinach hanging from your front tooth? Or a mysterious blob decorating your shirt like a badge of shame?

One morning, I had helped sort our community newsletters. One the way out I walked through the clubhouse and greeted the community director as she walked by. When I was done, I dashed back home, sat down to breakfast, and took a bite of toast. That’s when hubby paused mid-chew and said, “There’s something on your lip.”

I assumed it was a piece of toast I was eating. I gave it a swipe with my tongue. Nope. Toothpaste. A visible, minty glob was clinging to my mouth like a barnacle.

I had spent an hour with five fellow volunteers—five!—without a single one mentioning the Crest glob stuck to my lip. We all know the rule: see something, say something. Especially when that something is foaming.

This raises the eternal question: Do you speak up when someone has a social landmine stuck to them? Toilet paper trailing from their heel? Lipstick on a tooth? A giant chocolate stamp on the back of their pants that looks like, well, you know?

The chocolate thing? That’s happened a few times. I enjoy a nightly Dove Mini or a piece of Ghirardelli. Sometimes, a rogue bit of coating leaps from the treat to my lap, and if I don’t spot it in time… my pants become a wearable Rorschach test. One time, a brave woman tapped me and whispered, “You’ve got a brown stain on your pants bottom.” My carelessness mortified me – why didn’t I check my pants before leaving? But I was so grateful she told me. Since I was only a block away, I dashed home to change my pants.

I Googled, “What would you do?”  I found a helpful strategy in a Chat room: The One-Minute Rule. If someone can fix it in under a minute, yes, say something. Toilet paper, unzipped zipper, poppy seed tooth dot? Speak up. But if it’s something they can’t fix on the spot (yellow teeth, off makeup, or a bad haircut), let it go. Commenters agreed: Don’t cause shame unless there’s gain.

One bold commenter put it this way: “Yeah, I do my best. I hate being the person to tell a lady she has her skirt has caught in her waistband and her butt is out, or that someone’s jeans are undone in the front, but I know I appreciate that when a stranger helps me out so. Payin’ it forward.”

On that note: once,  I spotted a man at our community restaurant shuffling ahead of me with a cane. His pants had slipped, and half his underpants were on display. The Fruit of the Loom tag hung over his belt. I debated approaching him, but what if I startled him and sent him tumbling to the floor or gave him cardiac arrest? I chickened out and hoped his friends or a waiter would have more nerve than I did. I felt comfort that in our senior community, people who noticed would show empathy rather than scorn.

Now gym mishaps? That’s trickier. I’ve seen people doing moves so wrong their chiropractor should be notified in advance. But I never say anything. What if they wonder why I’m watching? Or wonder what makes me think I'm the gym guru?  If they aren’t about to drop a dumbbell on their foot, I keep quiet and pray a staff member steps in. (Spoiler: they usually don’t.)

And don’t even get me started on airport security. Once, I wore a shirt with what I thought were plastic accents. Wrong. It was like I walked through wearing armor. The scanner wailed, lights flashed, and I got a breast pat-down that rivaled my annual physical. At least the agent was female and efficient. Still—awkward.

Hubby, though, wins the prize. He took off his belt at security, stepped into the scanner, lifted his arms—and his pants hit the floor. Right to the ankles. The TSA agents didn’t flinch. Apparently, this happens often enough that it’s no longer headline material.

Then there’s the public restroom dilemma: you walk in, and it already smells… aggressive. Then someone else enters, and suddenly you’re afraid you'll be framed for the crime. You consider letting your fellow visitor know: “It was like this when I got here.” Or maybe stage a fake coughing fit and yell, “Whew! Don’t go in THAT stall!” But what if the culprit was you? Then what?

And finally, there’s the embarrassment of thinking you know someone and greeting them enthusiastically with a big grin, to realize halfway through your wave that this person is not the woman in your book club. They are, in fact, a total stranger who now thinks you’re either incredibly friendly or slightly unhinged. There’s no graceful exit. You try to cover with a sheepish“Oh! I thought you were someone else!” You almost hope you don’t run into them again.

So, when we notice something’s off, should we say something?

YES. Gently. Kindly. Quietly. Because as someone who’s had toothpaste lips, chocolate-butt pants, and mistaken identities—I’m telling you, kindness saves lives. Or at least dignity.