Hey, Christian Indies,
When I was around ten years old, I joined a youth softball league. I’ll never forget the nervous anxiety I had – I was new to the sport, and enthusiastic, but very unskilled. I was nervous about whether I would field the ball well, or hit well, or, most importantly, fit in with a bunch of girls I perceived to be nothing at all like me.
Of course, I was sent to play right field. I noticed my Dad, watching from behind the home team bench, just as I’d expected – my parents were always at all of my extra activities.
Practice started. The coach was serving pop flys. The first fly went to left field. The next went to center. I took the ready stance – my turn was coming.
From somewhere near third base, a voice floated over to me.
“Hey, kid,” my Dad’s tenor pierced the air with the tang of sauerkraut through saliva. “Your fly’s down!”
You can only imagine the humiliated horror I felt as I quickly remedied my wardrobe malfunction.
My ensuing tearful breakdown is the stuff of Nichols family lore. my poor father was confused by my reaction. He’d only trying to give me information he thought I would find helpful after all. As he tells it, “guys would have no problem calling something out like that.”
Of course, I was thankful my Dad had let me know about my embarrassing condition, though I would have appreciated a lighter touch. That’s what we have for you this week, dear reader, a gentle touch to let you know there might be a bit of internet spinach in your teeth, or a piece of bathroom tissue stuck to your shoe, in a virtual sense.
Tune in to find out how you can keep from being the online equivalent of a kid with her fly down.
Until then,
Jamie
