Remember this? It was the trip seen ‘round the world. I know most of us (with souls) watching felt just awful for her. The Academy Awards, a dress to die for and she nearly fell flat on her face going up to the podium. I take comfort in the fact that my mishaps are not televised.
I am a klutz. I admit it. I am the stumbling, bumbling epitome of maladroitness. My mother used to call me Grace Alice, though it’s been part of the family vernacular for so long, I’m not exactly sure where it came from. Well, the Grace is self-explanatory and facetious. I guess the addition of Alice just sounded good so it stuck. Makes sense to me. I am my mother’s daughter.
Merriam-Webster defines a klutz as a clumsy person. The origin is from the German clotz meaning block of wood, probably used to describe the first person to trip over it.
The Urban Dictionary goes a step further:
A person who is never without a scrape or bruise. Always finds a way to trip, bump into things and people. And on occasion, they partially knock themselves out by walking into walls, doorways, and corners or cabinets and desks.
This, my friends, is me. It often seems as if I can’t get through the day without injuring myself in some way. My body is a mass of scar tissue from old injuries and bruises from new ones. Both ankles are permanently swollen, they’ve been sprained so many times. I once broke my foot walking across the carpet in my office. I wear flats most of the time not because heels hurt my feet, but because I’m afraid I’ll step in a crack or crevasse on a city sidewalk and break my neck.
I’ve taken to doing this very thing. Every time I land on my butt because I’ve missed the edge of the chair on wheels or slid into the splits on a highly polished floor, yada yada yada, I raise my arms in the air like I’ve just completed an Olympic-level dismount from a balance beam. I don’t think anyone is buying the act yet, but I’m still honing my craft.
June 13 is “National Kitchen Klutzs of America Day”, so you might be wondering why I’m talking about this today and not waiting until next week. Actually, most of my injuries do not occur in the kitchen (I did not say “none”). I usually know what I’m doing in the kitchen and can foresee the danger zones. Why I’m not able to transfer this to the rest of my life, I haven’t a clue.
So the answer to the question “why today?” is that I type this with a swollen hand because I slammed it into a wall yesterday. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. (I’ve spared you the sight because really do we have to take pictures of everything?) What was I doing? My laundry. I know, I should have been more prepared to undertake such a dangerous activity.
I know I’m not alone. (Though nowhere near my level of incompetence, CC Cedras has an epic story that left her riding a fancy scooter for a few months.) Should we form a support group? And if you really want to make me feel better about myself, you’ll share an anecdote from your own clumsy closet. In any case, I wish you an incident-free week!