I can distinctly recall the moment I felt like I belonged in my extended family: 14 years old around a campfire roasting vegan hot dogs. My aunts (both fellow UC Santa Barbara alumni and proud of it, too) had taken my cousins, my sister and myself on our annual Julien camping trip. “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?” my aunt asked over the crackling logs. Pubescent and awkward and insecure and barely able to stomach the hot dogs, I definitely couldn’t stomach divulging my deepest secrets, but by the time the circle completed, I was eager for my story to join the ranks with hall of fame embarrassments: UTIs in Mexico and makeouts interrupted by police (who, in the 80s, had never seen two women in the backseat of a fogged up car before) and scaling trees to wrangle pet iguanas and terrible first kisses and inadvertent trips to nude beaches with family and …

I’ve matured quite a bit since that camping trip, but one juvenile question has stuck with me: Can it really be that fun to embarrass myself? Biologically, I understand the need for embarrassment. I understand rejecting social alienation, yet when I reminisce on some of my favorite memories with myself, consider some of my most admirable qualities and reflect on times I felt closest to my loved ones, I realize that they have one thing in common: I risked or shared, if not viscerally experienced, some utter humiliation.

Don’t worry, I’ll provide you all with plenty of anecdotes in case you’re feeling like indulging in a voyeuristic little morning humiliation ritual, something filling to pair with your coffee. My father always tells me to lead by example, so I’ll start here, with some of the stories I would have shared at the campfire had they happened to me back then. I won’t blame you if the taste of vicarious embarrassment is too bitter for you and you put my article down right now.

The first embarrassing story that comes to mind is from my freshman year, trekking back to the San Miguel dorms. It was the first week of college, and, like so many other naive freshmen, I fell victim to DLG chimichanga day. Broad daylight, bent over a tree in front of the University Center, I vomited everywhere, directly in someone’s walking path. I then started crying, so not only had I vomited, but I was a blubbering mess about vomiting. I remember sitting outside the Multicultural Center with my head in my palms, the taste of tears and chimichangas on my lips — a very salty afternoon.

A few weeks after the chimichanga incident, and, with much encouragement from my roommate at the time, I volunteered to be hypnotized (apparently the chimichanga had left me hungry for more public humiliation). When I got up on stage, and discovered with a panic that hypnosis did not work on me, that I was still fully responsible for whatever movements my body was about to make, I began dancing out of pure pity for the hypnotist incapable. Just last month, my current roommate’s boyfriend told me he recognized me from my hypnosis. We’re fourth years now. I was determined to have that wiped from everyone’s minds, but I suppose that’s not something I, or anyone — as I learned first hand that hypnosis might just be a sham — can erase with the snap of a finger. 

Unbeknownst to me, I went to work this December in a sheer skirt. It was a three hour shift, and I spent it feeling adorable in my new outfit (it was my birthday, of course), listening to my boots click clack against the linoleum, practically begging everyone to look at me. Looking out for my waning dignity, my coworker told me that she could see my (bright pink, in case anyone was curious) underwear, but nearly all my managers and just about every customer who walked into the campus store that day had already probably seen that (you’re welcome?), so who cares, at that point, it was out of my control.

I once asked a boy, to his face, to reject me in high school because my unrequited crush was dragging on too long and I wanted to get over it. As hoped, he rejected me, and once the initial sting of that rejection subsided, I had one of my best, freest summers to date.

There are at least five more embarrassing moments, including hopeless crushes on TAs, rats in my kitchen, miserable attempts at speaking French, all of which had to be cut from this article for brevity, but nevertheless; I do things which are — because I am, in nature — embarrassing.

That all felt great to share. Selfishly, this has been a wonderful form of exposure therapy for me, so if you made it through all of that, thank you, I commend you. I feel like we’re friends now. Embarrassment feels like a sort of secret, a burden that gets harder to shoulder the deeper I try to press it down. I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily proud of these things, but I certainly feel a lot lighter when I put them out in the open. This balance between private and public, between what we want seen by others and what we want seen by nobody, not even ourselves, makes us wary of embarrassment; I think we vehemently reject humiliation because we ultimately crave control. 

With embarrassment comes a fear of perception, or a fear that we cannot control how others will react to our foolishness. Admitting that we care what others think would seriously jeopardize the whole “nonchalance epidemic” we unfortunately find ourselves in, one where we are averse to feeling because of our fear of vulnerability. I know it’s not so simple, but realizing that, regardless of what you do, people will form their own opinions on you, is liberating. Perhaps we lack control entirely, so then limiting what you might or might not do for fear of embarrassing yourself in front of others is futile. Maybe choosing to share embarrassment with others would alleviate stress; it’s a way of regaining that control we all so desperately desire, isn’t it? Perhaps we are further afraid that we cannot control how we perceive ourselves as fools (after all, we are our own harshest critics). 

Embarrassment keeps us humble, reminds us that we are not divine, but deeply flawed, and all the more interesting for it. In accepting humility, in giving up control, I think we accept ourselves, giving ourselves permission to be foolish and feeling and therefore free. There’s a fine line between humility and humiliation, really only a few brush strokes — maybe you need to embrace the latter to master the former.

Most importantly, I believe that each time you embarrass yourself, you are saving yourself from one more regret. Each time I think about something embarrassing I did, I have to smile and thank myself — I don’t have to live with the regret of not knowing. I have now satiated that lifelong curiosity about hypnosis. I’ve made amends with people who have seen me in my most vulnerable moments. I’ve become more comfortable with myself because of how foolish I know I can be. If the worst thing you can be is embarrassed, if the worst thing you can do in pursuit of happiness is bruise your ego a little bit, grab an ice pack and move on.

As I conclude, embarrassment stands out to me as having these three key benefits, should we choose to embrace it: fostering social connection, humbling us as it combats apathy in its vulnerability and easing the dull ache of regret.

I urge you to do the embarrassing thing. Take the platforms at Wildcat by storm. Monopolize the pool table for 30 minutes because you keep whiffing the cue ball. Sing karaoke dead sober even though you’re tone deaf. With your tail between your legs give the apology you owe (bonus points if you do it in the most laughably dramatic fashion conceivable, like in a letter across the Pacific or under the flickering street lights of Sabado Tarde in the rain). Do what you want to do, at the cost of your ego. Be an embarrassment. Everything is embarrassing, or at least has the potential to be, so do it anyway, relinquish control. Sometimes, you have to end up face down on the pavement, tears and vomit staining the collar of your shirt, to remember that this only feels like rock bottom, to remember that you’re human, that you only have upwards to go, that you tried something new, that this will all be a funny story to look back at later when your aunt’s hands are cold and you can now start a campfire with all the heat risen in your face. 

Emma Bogna cannot wait to make a fool of herself this weekend.