I feel like I should start this like the stereotypical AA meetings you see in movies. You know:
“Hi, my name is Abby, and I am a klutz.”
Why are we talking about this? Well, because I want to share my lament in hopes that it might encourage others not to bemoan their own klutz status. What made me think to write this now??? Well, this week at work I tripped over some computer chords and said a not-so-choice word as, skidding, my knees caught the brunt of my fall against the sand-paper-like carpet. Uncomfortable as it was, this is not the only outlandish occurence of anti-gravitational skill in my recent past. To be quite frank, falling down is starting to become a serious problem for me.
This past year I have realized, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I am no longer just occasionally clumsy, but that I am that friend; the one that is always falling down. Don’t get me wrong, gracelessness when moving has never been my forté, but the last 12 months have been rife with some real doozies.
Let’s rewind a few months, just to give you a clear picture of how impossible living with klutziness has become. Twas the night before my brother’s wedding, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for little old moi
. And for good reason! Most of the family were passed out, exhausted after rehearsing not only
the wedding itself, but also the coordinated dancing “flash-mob” that my brother and his fiancée were planning for the reception
. However, I was running around printing of final details for the wedding gift my brother and I were putting together for the newlyweds (a year of pre-planned dates with all the necessary accoutrements!). After my second failed attempt to print, I headed upstairs to see if anyone else was still awake to help me with the infernal printer. Halfway up the stairs, I remembered that I needed to turn the basement lamp off . . .
That’s right. Being the extremely graceful person that I am, I managed fall down my parents basement stairs at about 1:30 in the morning and (drum-roll please) land nose-first on the concrete floor, officially breaking my nose less than 12 hours before the ceremony. Somebody award me a badge.
I’ve never broken a bone before, but then I’ve never had a sibling get married before, so maybe it was only appropriate that they should both happen for the first time on the same day.
I actually would prefer to think of the entire episode as an experimental (if failed) attempt at flight, especially since I’m not really sure how I wound up landing as far away from the steps as I did. Plus, the entire experience certainly made me much more thankful for ibuprofen, since I took about 4 of them every few hours on the wedding day.
All this said, if you are like me, and you really identify with this tiny dancer when it comes to lack of innate grace, . . .