I like to think of myself as fairly in tune with the modern Zeitgeist. I peruse The New York Times on a semi-daily basis, keeping up-to-date on current events (not to mention the cutting edge of crossword-puzzle technology), and I read the covers of trashy magazines while waiting in line at Wegmans, thereby gleaning not only the latest comings and goings of Hollywood’s hottest stars but also 107.38 NEW Ways to Please My Man in Bed (”To add some variety to your love life, try surprising your man by unexpectedly sticking a piece of dry ice down the back of his underwear! He won’t be able to sit for weeks!”). So it was with a certain smug confidence that I sat down with a few friends this past weekend to play the 1990s-themed version of Trivial Pursuit. After all, nearly half of my life transpired during the ’90s — I couldn’t help but know all of the relevant trivia. Or so I thought.

We tore open the box and set up the board. Instead of the usual circular playing pieces, there were four figurines: a cup of coffee, a PalmPilot-esque PDA, a certificate for “dotcom.com stock” and a grunge rocker. And instead of the usual six stodgy categories, there were six ultra-hip types of questions: “Hanging,” “Viewing,” “Wired,” “Oops,” “Trends” and “Important.” After admiring the shoddily-made game pieces and the “funky” typefaces on the board, we could no longer stand the suspense and began playing.

Half an hour in, nobody had answered a question correctly. We began accompanying questions with hints and telling each other which categories to choose based on which question the player would be most likely to answer correctly. Questions were read so as to make the answers as obvious as possible: “‘Which company sent its TIREless mascot on tour in 1994?’ No, it wasn’t Goodyear; Goodyear doesn’t have a mascot. A blimp doesn’t count as a mascot! No, it wasn’t Firestone either. The mascot is the something Man. It’s alliterative. It sounds like ‘Michigan.’”
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A popular blog, Dooce.com, opened up its comments on Sunday evening for readers to post their most embarrassing moments. Within 24 hours, there were more than 400 replies, evoking reactions from “Why was he embarrassed by this?” to “Oh no, on her priest?” I wasted more time than I’d like to admit reading through these confessions and vignettes, and I began thinking about how infrequently I feel humiliated these days. Even when I experience something that would have sent me into hiding for several days were I to experience it during high school — say, a ridiculously clumsy pratfall on the Goldwin-Smith staircase that culminates in sliding across the landing on my stomach while people around me gasp in horror — I merely stand up, brush the dust and literary magazines off of my coat, and continue on my way, silently formulating how I will tell the story in order to maximize its hilarity. Goodbye, “How will I ever set foot in public again?” Hello, “How can I work this into next week’s column?”

Take this story, for example. At the start of this past winter break, I went home with my boyfriend to meet his family for the first time. I was understandably apprehensive, and spent the entire six-hour bus ride chewing my fingernails and repeatedly questioning the boyfriend about whether there were any conversational topics I should be careful to avoid broaching (”You’re sure nobody in your family has ever been injured by an errant lima bean?”).

As it turns out, my fears were unfounded; his family was extremely hospitable, and I’m not just saying that because they read my column occasionally. But there was one little incident. After several hours, the lengthy bus ride coupled with the three or four glasses of water I had gulped down nervously meant that I was experiencing a rather urgent need to use the facilities. At last I could wait no longer, and I politely asked where the bathroom was located. I followed their directions, did what I had to do and flushed the toilet.

And the water level started rising.
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