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Here is my Inspiration MondayVII story. Thank you, Stephanie of BeKindRewrite for all  your hard work!   And a big thank you to Indigo Spider for help explaining pingback and a whole list of other things, too!

This story is for my daughter. When I shared with her the 5 prompts for BeKindRewrite’s Inspiration MondayVII this week, ‘At the Worst Possible Moment’ immediately brought to life for her what had happened at the age of eleven. In memory of those hard pubescent years, here it is!

AT THE WORST POSSIBLE MOMENT

It was an ordinary Sunday morning for everyone except my eleven year old daughter. To her this was a special day. The calendar didn’t acknowledge anything festive or momentous. If you turned to the date it showed just a run-of-the-mill regular black and white day. Our family was getting ready to head to our congregation, a regular Sunday ritual.

 The mirror nodded approval and winked at her. She was wearing a new dress, the exact one she had cajoled me into buying a few days prior. She worked hard to get that dress, not with arm twisting, but instead with just the right amount of sweet talking.  She had explained the color was a perfect match for her skin and it brought out her eyes, too. The style fit her body perfectly, and, wisely she added, it wasn’t too old-looking for her but at the same time she didn’t look like a measly ten-year old anymore, either.

Her shoes were to die for and she had almost done just that when I said she could get them. They actually had a heel on them, not very high but a heel just the same. Best of all, she didn’t have to wear those disgusting white tights. She had come up in the world, graduated. She had real panty hose on. How long had she been begging to do this? These were big girl panty hose if she ever saw any. She was definitely stylin’!

She had fussed and fidgeted with her hair until it was just right. It was sprayed stiff but looked soft and bouncy. She looked exactly like the blossoming young lady she had been trying to convince me she was. If there had been buttons on that dress we would have heard them popping with pride at each step.

She couldn’t wait to get out of the car once we arrived, couldn’t wait for her friends to see her. Some of them didn’t wear panty hose yet but she was sure after this they would be able to start, too.

We found our seats toward the middle/back of the room, all three of us, my daughter, my son and I.  We put our song books, pocketbooks, purses and everything else we had down on the seats and went off to visit with our own friends before things got going.

As things got started and we were sitting there, I told both of my children I was going to be interpreting (American Sign Language) up front and to please pay attention and I would be back after my part was finished.

When I got back to my seat, I realized I had forgotten my song book in the front of the room. I whispered to my daughter and asked if she would mind getting it for me. She beamed. This meant she would be walking up there in front of everyone, so,  others, not only her friends would see how well dressed she was today.  She nodded in the affirmative and jumped up.

She walked up the aisle and past many members of the congregation. One young man in his early twenty’s was visiting.  He had come a few times before. He was sitting on the edge by the aisle and had an unkempt look about him. She passed him on the way up and grabbed my song book. Just as she was turning to come back the whole room happened to get very quiet while waiting for the delayed song music to start.

My so very proud daughter made her way back in the dead silence and just when she passed the chair of the newcomer, at the worst possible moment, there was an extra loud and super long FART that ripped through the silence even vibrating his chair. This was not gas, this was not flatulence. This was a total let-it-rip FART. All heads turned immediately to where the sound was coming from. My daughter was right there, exactly at his seat position when all those heads turned and looked. Everyone thought it was HER. Her face changed from a beautiful soft young pink color to deep embarrassing red. She practically ran to our seats then sat down totally mortified. The music and singing started. She sighed with relief. It saved her.

My son, sixteen months his sister’s junior, thought this was the greatest thing that could possibly ever happen. He had always had a personal relationship with all body sounds and this was an absolute bonus. Right here in this room where the words flatulence and gas weren’t ever discussed it had happened. He was in total cut-the-cheese ecstasy. There was just nothing better than a good toot. He was looking at his peers, winking, grinning and enjoying this mishap. His mind was busy planning, too.  He couldn’t wait to get his friends together later. To celebrate this event they would have a contest of artificial farts under the arm. He was already sure none of them could even come close to the one his sister had walked by earlier. That one was the real winner.

To this day there are probably little ole’ blue haired ladies reminiscing about the day the F bomb was dropped, and they are probably swearing they saw the windows shake, the curtains move and the fan lights vibrate. What they probably still don’t know is the innocence of that young eleven year old girl wearing that pretty dress, those new shoes and the big girl panty hose. She just happened to be walking by at the worst possible moment!

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