I know this. And normally, I stick to my low-carb diet pretty well. Low-carb, not “no carb” – because that would just be insane.

Anyway, last night I was in a hurry. I made stir-fry for dinner and shoveled as much as I could into my mouth before we all had to dash out the door to a wrestling meet. Rice, stir-fry sauce, starchy vegetables… carbs, carbs, carbs.

We showed up at the wrestling meet on time and cheered and clapped and stomped our feet as my baby brother easily pinned his first opponent.

Next match. He finds himself on bottom – which happens – and I find myself cringing and contorting myself in all sorts of awkward positions on the bleacher.

And then I hear the crowd behind me and around me, over and over and over, shouting “put pressure on the shoulder! Pressure on the shoulder!!”

Now, if you know anything about wrestling, you would hear that and know that pressure on the shoulder helps you get a good bar arm in.

If you know nothing about wrestling and heard that, well – you probably wouldn’t be paying that close attention and would have no fucking clue what these people were talking about.

If, however, you were watching your baby brother wrestle in only his third meet back since dislocating said fucking shoulder… well, you would hear that and take it as a personal affront. I mean, maybe you would.

And maybe you would restrain yourself, or maybe you would cast a few evil eyes over your shoulder and maybe a ”hey! What the fuck!?? That’s just mean!”

Either way, no harm no foul. At that point.

Up until the point that said pressure on said shoulder sent my baby brother running off the mat in agony. Heart, meet throat.

From there it just got worse. I got ugly. Embarrassingly ugly. When some cow behind me made some snide remark about “cutting his arm” I promptly stood up and informed her just what the fuck was going on. I may have said something about how fucking funny she would think it was if that was HER kid crying.

I absolutely, positively, made a complete ass of myself.

Even now I can’t bring myself to rehash every single detail. Doing so makes my heart thump thinking about HIS pain and MY fear…. and my face flush remembering my own shameless display.

I didn’t get kicked out or anything. No one had to settle me down. But my husband wasn’t thrilled – to say the least. And most importantly, a big piece of my dignity died right there in those bleachers.

I’m always a psycho supportive fan, but I’m not usually an ass.

I blame it on the Rice.