Turn other cheek when you’re the butt of a joke

I have a friend who usually gets things right.

She doesn’t make the same dumb mistakes I do, so as a rule, whenever we talk – and we don’t get to talk as often as we would like – we spend most of our time helping me find a way out of some fine, silly, mess I’ve gotten myself into.

But last weekend, when I poured a glass of red wine (for medicinal purposes because I understand it’s good for me) and called my friend for a long, uninterrupted heart-to-heart and a little advice for my latest dilemma, she showed a different side.

My friend, like so many of us who are of a certain age and spend a fortune on lotions and creams to repair the damage done by years of baking in the sun, doesn’t tan anymore. But, because she doesn’t want to look pale and pasty when it’s time to put on the shorts and sundresses, she uses one of those self-tanning products.

Last Friday night, still damp from the shower, she slathered her body with the stuff. But when she put her left foot up on the vanity to make it easier to cover her leg and hip, she lost her balance and stumbled backwards, bumping the wall behind her. She recovered quickly and propped her right foot up on the vanity, got that leg covered, waited five minutes to make sure the lotion was dry and wouldn’t stain her nightgown, turned out the light and went to bed.

The next morning, while looking into the mirror as she got ready for work, she noticed something on the wall behind her. Toothbrush still in her mouth, she walked over to get a closer look and realized, to her horror, that what had caught her eye were the twin smudges left when her backside – apparently the only part of her to make contact – hit the wall the night before.

Because she was going for that all-over glow, the tanning cream she had rubbed on that area had been transferred to the wall.

The worst part of it, my friend said, was that it was immediately obvious that she wasn’t looking at the bun prints of, say, Claudia Schiffer or your average Victoria’s Secret model. Nope, instead of “buns of steel” the image on my friend’s wall was clearly the posterior of a middle-aged mother-of-three who is pushing 50 and spends eight hours a day sitting behind a desk. A woman who is no stranger to Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Rocky Road ice cream. A woman who considers getting off the sofa to refill her coffee mug an aerobic workout.

At this point I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Wow,” I choked, “You made an ass of yourself.”

Fortunately, my friend has a reliable sense of humor. We laughed until we cried. When she remembered to ask how things were going with me, I couldn’t resist one more jab.

“Well, you know,” I snickered, “In hindsight, so to speak, my problem isn’t as big as yours.” She threatened to hang up but I begged her not to get mad.

“Remember,” I said, “You’re supposed to turn the other cheek.”

We were off again, laughing until our stomachs hurt.

My friend never did get around to giving me any advice, but she did remind me, literally, that sometimes in this life we stumble and hit bottom. Sometimes we make a bad impression. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we’re the butt of our own joke.

In addition to tears of laughter, and cheeks that ached from grinning, I came away from the late-night huddle with my old friend armed with a strategy for dealing with the little problem that’s been on my mind lately.

I just need to put it behind me.