When I was growing up, I remember my parents jokingly calling me Grace, although I don't recall if I understood why, exactly. I was also the poor kid in grade school who was picked last on any team, and I didn't understand why about that either (although it may have had something to do with the polyester pants I insisted on wearing in 4th grade because that was the kind my grandma, whom I idolized, wore). Needless to say, sports were not my strong suit, nor was walking a straight line, apparently. In my defense, I must brag, I was one heckuva pogo-sticker!
Anyway, now I get it.
When I was married to my ex, one of the things that used to drive him nuts about me was the fact that, when walking down a hallway, I tended to hug the wall just a tad too closely, making my wedding ring clink. Until he said something about it I hadn't really noticed. Since then, I have noticed more and more, and I tell people that I'm "spatially retarded." If there's a wall available for me to smack into within a 5-mile radius, you can guarantee that I'll find that baby and deliver myself a glancing blow.
My favorite is my desk at work. There used to be a keyboard tray attached to the underside where the computer sits, but it really wasn't set up to be ergonomically correct, so someone removed it years ago. However, when they did that, they failed to remove the runners attached to the side. Somehow it manages to sneak itself forward, millimeters at a time, unnoticed by me until I swivel my chair around to leave my desk, upon which it attacks, delivering a breath-sucking stab to my thigh. I can also count on running into the corner of my co-worker's desk at least once per day, just to make sure the bruises are equally distributed on both legs.
The last few weeks I have reached record lows with my gracefullness quota. As I reported in an earlier post, about 6 weeks ago I broke my toe. I have faithfully hog-tied it to its neighbor toe and have worn nothing but sensible shoes for 6 long weeks now. Unfortunately, I think I keep rebreaking it, because at least once a week I will stub that foot into something, and I'm not bright enough to keep my shoes on in the house to protect it. I tried bending it today, knowing that most broken bones heal after 4-6 weeks, but it still hurts almost as much as it did the first day.
About 2 1/2 months ago I managed to jam my pinky on the right hand, I'm not even quite sure how (probably just walking down a hallway!). It never has felt better, but it wasn't getting worse either, so I just let it be. Then, about 2 weeks ago it started hurting like nothing I've felt before. The slightest bump was enough to bring tears to my eyes, and lifting the laundry out of the washer was unbearable (too bad I couldn't use that to my advantage!). I finally went in to the doc 10 days ago for ex-rays. The good news was that it's not broken; the bad news is that I probably screwed up a tendon somehow. They put it in a brace and sent me on my way, but true to form, I still manage to bash it into things. And typing has never been quite so entertaining! It adds a new challenge at work, at one of the busiest times when I could really do without...
Then today. Today I have been a klutz of epic proportions.
I started the morning off with bumping the finger. Then, when leaving the bathroom, I somehow managed to SLAM my elbow into the corner of the towel rack, right on the funny bone. It literally took my breath away and once again brought tears to my eyes. Later, watching the Super Bowl (I'll be honest - I only watched the commercials - no matter how hard I try to care, football always bores me to tears), I stood up to make a snack run and managed a glancing blow to my hip on the corner of the table. I had promised the boys that I would watch the game with them, so I used the time in captivity to work on scrapbooking. I have a cabinet that has all my scrapbooking supplies gathered together, so I kept making excursions into the other room to grab some other supply that I needed. Sadly for me, the two doors on the top shelves do not want to stay latched. I bent down to find paper on the bottom shelves, and then quickly stood up after I found what I needed. Of course, as you may have guessed, the upper door had popped open, so I brought my head up full force into the bottom corner. It was so unbelievably stupid that all I could do was laugh hysterically as tears ran down my cheeks. Whether they were from the pain or the irony, I don't know.
Padded room, anyone?