I was nearly tossed off a horse at summer camp when I was six years old. And for the last 20 years, I’ve tried to tell myself that it wasn’t as embarrassing as it felt then. Instead I thought: “I probably looked like the cowboy in one of those old Busch beer commercials.” The ones where the weathered, majestic wrangler holds up an ice-cold six-pack he just pulled out of a clear mountain stream, just as the huge stud he’s riding kicks up onto its hind legs in celebration of the find.

Truth is, I looked like a six-year-old who was letting out a series of high-pitched screams and had lost his shorts in front of 30 other campers as he awkwardly held on to “Blackie,” the camp’s nasty old mare that was reserved for the husky kids (I’d have been mad too, if I got stuck on chub detail all the time).

But to pretend that I was Sam Elliott, breaking wild stallions as he headed for the mountains of Busch, made the painful memory almost painless.

But as bad as embarrassment often is, we can take solace in knowing it was probably way more painful for everyone who witnessed our folly. That’s got to be torture. Way worse than getting caught in a stirrup and dragged a few feet with your pants down.