There Is No Cure For Clumsy

For as long as I can remember I’ve been clumsy.  I stumble, I trip, I fall, I poke myself with things, I spill drinks and drop food.  I can pick up something and it will fly out of my hand like a rocket.  Try to imagine a bologna sandwich as a deadly weapon.

In school I was terrible at physical education.  I can’t tell you how I cringed when I was faced with the pommel horse during gymnastics.  (Let’s not even talk about the gym uniforms or taking a shower after gym.  I break out in hives just thinking about it.)  I was afraid of all gym activities for fear of hurting myself and looking like a dork.

As an adult I found one sport I could participate in and that was bowling.  I was fairly good at it (could throw a 16 pound ball on a curve) but I was not without my defining moments in the world of ten pins.  I have, more than once, tripped and stumbled halfway down the lane in front of dozens of people.  The sad thing is there isn’t much to trip on when throwing a bowling ball except one’s own feet.

Years ago (and I cannot believe I’m going to tell this story) my husband was on the lawn tractor cutting grass.  I was inside having a bowl of cereal when something came on TV that got me really excited and I just had to tell him about it.  Any sane person would have put the bowl down and walked outside but not me.  No, instead I take off out the front door with said bowl of cereal in hand and run down the driveway (I’m sure that in itself was worth the price of admission.)

So, I’m halfway down the driveway when I trip over my feet and find myself airborne.  I land face first on the driveway while the bowl of cereal went flying.  Imagine my husbands shock when he saw his wife with her face planted firmly in the concrete while  Corn Flakes danced through the air.

It’s obvious to me that age does not cure clumsiness.  Yesterday was a perfect example.  Cabin fever was getting the best of me so I went shopping.  I decided to go to McD’s for breakfast because no one wants to power shop on an empty stomach.  I should have known things weren’t going to go well when I ran over the concrete median thingy at the drive thru and then ran over it again getting to the window.  I get my food and park the truck so I can eat.  I’m happily munching on my biscuit when I go to take a drink of coffee.  Suffice to say my cup o’ joe ended up all over my white sweatshirt.  Not only did I look like I’d spilled coffee but I smelled like it for the duration of my shopping expedition.  It kind of took the fun out of shopping knowing I was walking around smelling like a pot of Folgers.

Last night was another prime example of my inability to do anything without a mishap.  I was taking a pizza out of the oven when it started to slide off the pizza pan.  I had an oven mitt on one hand but not the other.  Seriously, who needs two oven mitts to take a pizza out of the oven?  Apparently I do because when the pizza began to come off the pan I tried to catch it with my other hand, my bare hand, and that was all she wrote.  I can’t tell you what exactly transpired as I was too busy screaming like a girl but I somehow managed to get the pizza onto the stove top.  It had a big old hand print in it but it was edible.  Once I stopped cussing and got the pain under control, I asked my husband if the pizza was okay and he said, “Yeah, it tastes like hand.”  Smart ass.

For the most part my husband has learned to laugh at my lack of balance only when I can’t see him doing so.  I’m learning to be faster with comebacks too.  When I get up from the sofa and bump into the wall I’ll say, “Who moved that wall?” before he does.  We’re quite the pair, us two.

I don’t suppose I will ever get over being clumsy.  I’ll continue to trip, stumble, drop things and spill my coffee.  As long as I don’t end up in the emergency room I can live with it.  Although due to skyrocketing insurance premiums, I think it may be time to invest in a bib, a helmet and some shin guards to protect myself from me.  Who knows, maybe I can find a sale on full-body armor.

On an unrelated note I just had to include this photo of my little man Finn (although he's seen me fall more times than I can count.) It's a good thing dogs can't talk.