Twenty years later, I still cross the street when I see computer stores.
Dramatic? Maybe.
But that's what embarrassment does. It brands moments into your memory with a hot iron.
I was sixteen. Rosebank mall was buzzing with weekend shoppers. The computer store gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights – rows of IBM 386s displaying colorful screensavers like digital peacocks.
I had money burning in my pocket. Birthday cash. And I knew exactly what I wanted.
A space simulator game.
The box art showed sleek starships against cosmic backdrops. I could already imagine myself piloting through asteroid fields, conquering alien worlds.
Simple transaction, right?
Wrong.
The sales guy looked bored. Probably wondering why this teenager was just standing there, holding a game box like it contained nuclear codes.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
My mouth opened. Ready to ask the most basic question in retail history.
"Does this come with a... a... a..."
The word sat there. Locked behind my teeth like a stubborn prisoner.
"U... u... u..."
His eyebrows raised. Impatience flickered across his face.
"User manual?" he finished.
My face erupted in flames. Nuclear-level heat that I swear could have powered the store's computers.
I nodded. Pretended to cough. Cleared my throat like something was stuck there.
Anything but admit the truth.
Two simple words had defeated me. USER. MANUAL.
Words I'd said a thousand times in my head. Words that turned to concrete the moment they hit my tongue.
The sales guy answered my question. Something about documentation and installation guides. But I wasn't listening.
I was drowning in shame.
I bought the game. Mumbled my thanks. Fled like I'd committed a crime.
Outside the store, I leaned against the mall railing. Watching families and couples walk by, chatting effortlessly.
How did they make it look so easy?
That space simulator? I never played it. It sat on my shelf, a $40 reminder of my failure.
But here's what I learned twenty years later:
That wasn't failure.
That was courage.
I walked into that store knowing the risks. Knowing my words might abandon me. But I went anyway.
I faced the fluorescent lights. The impatient sales guy. The possibility of public humiliation.
And I survived.
Every embarrassing moment taught me something valuable: I'm stronger than my stuttering thinks I am.
Those two words – USER MANUAL – they don't control me anymore.
Sometimes I still stumble. Sometimes my words still hide.
But I keep talking.
I keep trying.
And that teenage kid in the computer store? He'd be proud of who I became.
Even if I still avoid computer stores on weekends.