Falls, flies and flubs: a salute

There is something worse than your own personal humiliation: bearing witness to a complete stranger's. If that makes no sense to you, you might as well stop reading-you are probably the type to laugh when you see a student take a nose-dive on the quad in her mad Monday morning dash to the bus stop. Your demons go beyond the scope of this column.

I came away with only minor bumps, just so you know.

But I like to think the majority of us are sympathetic to the plight of the most recently mortified. We have respect for the toe-stubber; the check-your-fly guy; the girl who confidently marches to the front of class with toilet paper tucked into her skirt; and that other girl, dressed in little more than Technicolor leggings, oblivious to the effect the piercing Carolina rays have on her suddenly translucent posterior. You may not know any of these people personally, but you recognize them all. You have experience rescuing blunderers from their mishaps, through use of what society calls "Tact": awkward series of gestures in the vicinity of your own anatomy, in the middle of her solo and his English presentation, to let them know which body parts inadvertently swing free.

Sadly, wardrobe malfunctions are not the worst that can befall the stranger sitting beside you on the C-1. Life would be too easy. If you've ever squirmed uncomfortably in your bucket seat, with the friendly desire to offer her a tissue, him a laxative, them a room, recognize you are not alone. There exists a campus-heck a country-full of awkwardly apologetic bystanders like you.

In some cases, you find yourself wishing there were something you could do, not for the sake of your own comfort, but for the peace of mind of the traumatized person in question. There is something discomfiting about being privy to a stranger's sudden vulnerability, exposed by some mismanaged piece of clothing or bodily mishap. That moment of awkwardness is shot with embarrassment on both sides, but on your part it's more; you feel oddly compelled to help set things right for your stranger.

More specifically, you wish there were some kind of signal you could send, not just to show professor how he might go about fixing his hairpiece, but also to assure him that in 30 years, you'll be seeking out synthetic options too. A hand signal, a friendly gesture. An open admission that you share with the stranger a history of falling on your face, tripping up the stairs and splitting the seams of your pants and failing to realize it all day. You, too, once pried up your shirt with your sweater in the middle of public policy (if you're a girl) or, in your hurry to rectify a pesky fly failure, zipped up swiftly before confirming that all passageways were clear (if you're a guy).

In such delicate situations, proffering hands-on help to fix the problem may not be so well-received. A toothy grin certainly won't make anyone feel better, and flashing a thumb-and-index-finger "A-Ok" is probably not a great idea.

The solution? I propose a standard salute. Something between a wave and a hat-tip. It recognizes not only the universality of the mortifying moment but also that awkward connection forged between you, the sympathetic onlooker and the humiliated subject who lands face flat on the Plaza, attempts to flee the scene and leaves you no choice but to run after her, holding the retainer she dropped pinched between your thumb and forefinger. Grossed out you may be, and yet, looking into her horrified face, you distinctly recall rooting through the trash at Armadillo Grill in a desperate search for your credit card last semester.