My tolerance for embarrassment is set on "accept all cookies." I swear, this open door policy is a Darwinian development so I can manage to leave my house every day. Instead of being potentially embarrassed, I accept it, breathe in, breathe out, and move on.

Examples of this that might send my sister-in-law into a tizzy but to me are all fairly regular occurrences include the following:

♦	Tripping, especially over tiny, invisible molecules
♦	Saying something that’s supposed to be witty/insightful/thought-provoking but instead receives staticky dead-air silence from a room full of people
♦	Having my voice squeak, crack, or sound weird
♦	Walking into screen/glass doors (yup, it's happened more than once)

But every now and then, something shows up that embarrasses even me. For example:

It’s pretty unlikely that after working out, I’ll come home and think, The stinkiness of my workout bag supersedes my naturally lazy tendency to leave it for the next laundry. Into the wash! Stranger things happen everyday, though, and down in the building’s basement laundry room, I pull everything out and throw the bag in the wash. I'm stuck with a mountain of bag-dwelling items, like pens, a gym lock, sunglasses, lip-balm, keys. And, of course, tampons. So everything that fits goes in my jacket pockets, and everything that doesn't fit I carry in my hands. Except for the tampons, which are too long for my jacket pockets and too embarrassing for the hand-carry; they go in my skirt pocket. Coming together pretty well, right?

I run upstairs to ditch my stuff and head out on a few errands. Well, I forget about my skirt pockets. Not really a

"Red Art" by Kristi Schueler

problem, you’d think. No, not at all, at least until the stiff fabric of my skirt creates an inadvertent pocket thrust when combined with my locomotion. Suddenly, the emergency bag-dwelling tampons poke out of my pocket for the world to see.

But not just poking out in a cute nubbin-like way, where they could remain at a "what is that?" level of notice. Nope, these tampons are curious about the outside world and expose more than a good fifty percent of themselves. Curious, but resilient, they manage to find that teetering edge where they are set at maximum, no-mistaking-this-object visibility, without actually falling out of the pocket.

I’d like to say that this is something only my sister-in-law could be embarrassed by. And perhaps, at any point on my entire trip, had I noticed the inquisitive tampons, it might have been. But no, I have to go into several of my local jaunts, delusionally blissful about how I live in a big city that still has a tiny-town feel. Oh, hello Ms. Postal Person! Hi there, Vegetable Vendor! Look there, across the street, it's So-and-So from work! I'd better stick my hand way up in the air to wave and further expose the contents of my skirt pocket!

When I return home, I finally notice the tampons. Just how long have they been sticking out? It doesn't matter. Nothing can convince me that they popped out mere seconds before I walked into my apartment. I feel like a troubled child sent to school with a note pinned to my shirt ("If found leaking, please employ tampon.") Or like a militant member of some Menses-Positive Group. ("Yeah, man, it's that time. Wanna make something of it?")

Come on, Highly-Developed-Embarrassment-Genes! Deep, cleansing breath and we'll get through this! Although I’m tempted to run back down the street and create a more exciting diversion just to steer conversation in a new direction. "Did you see that naked clown juggling fireballs? The one right after Tampon Lady? Remember Tampon Lady? You don’t? No matter, about this clown . . . ”