Category: Did that really just happen?

Feeling a little blue…

I admit it, I’m a hypochondriac.

My roommate was a nurse and I regularly ask her if my {non-existent} symptoms mean I’m dying.

She also helped me discover that the mysterious ring forming on my skin after showering wasn’t ringworm, it was the result of pressing the bottle of my face wash against me for leverage. Yeah…


And google is not my friend. Every time I search my symptoms I immediately think I have the plague.

But the ultimate hypochondriac Pawkward story goes something like this…

It was the summer of 2010. I just flew back to San Diego from my first-ever trip to Portland, Oregon.

Portland was beautiful. And it was the first-time I had ever gone on a trip completely alone. I was feeling proud of myself and happy after a lovely weekend.

As I was getting ready for bed, I peeled off my skinny jeans and grabbed my comfy sweat pants {so sexy, I know}.

I looked down.

My legs! They were… blue! Splotches of blue. Almost like giant bruises.


Oh the panic!

Blood clots? Flesh eating disease?

I could just see it. Me with a sad expression on my face, sitting in a wheelchair, with no legs.


I had to get to the ER immediately! I called my {then} boyfriend in hysterics.

When he answered, I screamed, “I need to get to the hospital right now. My legs… my legs are going to fall off! They’re blue!”

He was dumbfounded. “Oh my god, Jess. I’ll leave work right now!”

I started pacing back and forth in my apartment.

My roommate caught me mid-meltdown {undies, blue legs and all}.

“Jess, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Brian, my legs are going to fall off. They’re blue! Look!”

As I wiped tears from my eyes, I pointed to my splotches.

“Jeez J. What did you do? Retrace your steps,” he said.

Then I remembered…

In Portland it was raining. And I did get a little wet while running into the airport…

I quickly ran to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth and wiped my leg. A bit of the blue came off on the washcloth.

I timidly dialed my boyfriend’s number between sniffles.

“I’m leaving right now!” he said.

“False alarm,” I said. “It was my jeans.”

Him: *Silent chuckling*

“Can you imagine if you went to the ER, Jess? You’d be on some sort of Wall of Fame!”

Me: *Angry look*

So, let this be a lesson kids, wash your dark-denim skinny jeans before wearing them in the rain.




Don’t leave me high. Don’t leave me dry.

Let me preface this story with: this is one of my favorite all-time embarrassing moments.

I cannot tell this story without laughing. Nope. And I always have to act it out so I will try my best to visualize the situation.

It all happened in October of 2011. The museum I work at recently finished restoring a F4U Corsair fighter plane and was planning to dedicate it to local legend Jerry Coleman. For those of you who don’t know, Lt. Col. Jerry Coleman is a former NY Yankee and announcer for the San Diego Padres. He is also the only major league baseball player who, as a Marine pilot, served in both WWII and Korea.

I organized a press conference for the local media and a special plane dedication ceremony for Jerry. Many people were in attendance; reporters, writers, photographers, board members, members of the Padres, etc.

The press conference/ceremony went very well and everyone seemed pleased. Jerry is really an upstanding guy. And it’s pretty amazing to see how the museum’s restoration team can build/restore planes so beautifully.

A small reception followed the event and everyone was mingling, networking and schmoozing. The usual. I sparked up a conversation with one of the VPs of the Padres. We chatted about collaborating in the future, sponsorships and important business-ish stuff. Our conversation was coming to a close–and this is when it gets good.

The gentleman (who I won’t name), complimented me on a job well done and waved his hand to say goodbye.

IN A NORMAL NON-AWKWARD JESS WORLD: I would’ve simply waved back to reciprocate. Or just smiled and said goodbye. But, no, I’m not normal.

I mistook his harmless, innocent low-ish wave for a high-five. Yup. A high-five.

So I went for it.

You know once you go in for the high-five, you’ve fully committed yourself. You can’t just stop mid-air.

So I forced a high-five onto the poor, unsuspecting VP of the San Diego Padres. And he had a look of horror on his face. He didn’t reciprocate the hit. His hand was already down by the time mine reached his. So I was pretty much just hitting him near the pocket-region.

I am cringing as I write this.

And to make things worse, I was eating a glazed donut about the size of my head.

You can’t make this stuff up people.

In my peripheral vision I see one of my coworkers who witnessed the whole awkward display. I see her mouth “What the fffffff??”

All of my dorky realization starts to settle in. And the redness starts consuming my face and any other visible skin.

I decide I should apologize. Forgetting I just took a HUGE bite of the giant glazed donut, I attempt to say, “sorry about that.” But it kind of comes out as “ory out at.”

Well now I’m red, clearly very embarrassed, most likely spitting pieces of donut from my mouth and guilty of a high-five assault.

This guy can’t get away fast enough.

He almost runs into someone as he is trying to escape.

So what’s the lesson in all of this? Hmm… well, I think it’s best to play it safe. High-fives are tricky. They’ll getcha. Don’t assume a raised hand is a high-five. It’s best to leave them hanging than slap their pant leg. And don’t eat before/during a conversation with high level execs/celebs (I think I’m noticing a trend here–see Indiana Jones and the Awkward Crusade).

So goodbye for now… *high-five!*