Sometimes, my clumsy, air-headed nature surprises even me.
Yesterday, I threw away my $10 Igloo lunch box, and I didn’t realize it for 2 hours. I had finished my sixth day of work in a week, and I realized that I was late to getting back from my fifteen minute break. I don’t remember throwing the lunch box away with my yogurt cup, but that’s where it was after five minutes of frantically searching the fridge, my locker, and my desk before randomly opening the trash can and seeing it sitting on top. I decided it was worth saving and snatched up out of there and took it home to be scrubbed with antibacterial wipes and left to dry. Even as we speak, it is sitting in its rightful place again in the break room fridge, holding my Kind bar, my mozzarella sticks, and my baby carrots.
Ten minutes later, my subconscious brain decided that was not enough for the day. No, as I was texting my husband about my escapades digging in the trash, my hand involuntarily to my pockets. My phone wasn’t there, and the building was locked down for the night. I had the most panicky 2.3 seconds of my entire life before I realized stupidly that I was literally holding my phone in my hand using it. I informed my husband of this further foolishness and told him I should probably get home before I hurt myself.
“Good call,” he texted back, and he watched me closely as I made some sweet potato fries to go with the leftover pickle chicken I had made the day before just in case I decided to burn myself or set the timer for 70 minutes instead of 7. Thankfully, I made through the remainder of last night perfectly safe and didn’t even trip over the hamper or stub my toe in the dark like I normally do on a daily basis.
It’s reasons like these that people remark to me, “Where did you get that bruise on your arm?” and are surprised when I shrug nonchalantly. It could be any number of possibilities. I regularly headbutt inanimate, pinch my fingers on things, and back my rear end into things. About once a week, I accidentally slam my hand into the side of the public service desk while swinging my arms because I never walk anywhere slowly, even when I’m dead tired like today. But things like depth perception and hand-eye coordination elude me. Ryan laughs at me when he sees me doing my Leslie Sansone Walk at Home workout because inevitably, I will run into the couch or trip over his shoes THAT HE LEFT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR. Like a magnet drawn to iron, my feet find their way to any objects that lie cluttered on my living room floor, and barring that, will occasionally trip over themselves for good measure.
I’m surprised that the worst injury I’ve ever had was when I got ten stitches and a broken nose from a patch of ice and a cement step.
But despite all this – despite my husband telling me while we were dating that I have a “clumsy walk” or my family mocking me because steps are hard, y’all – I am happy with who I am. Being clumsy and slightly scatterbrained reminds me that despite all my crazy, perfectionist idiosyncrasies that I can’t control life completely. There have been times, despite my pre-planning, the supposedly hard-boiled egg is actually raw and gets all over my hands while I’m at work. Or perhaps, I am late to work because I spend twenty minutes looking for my keys only to find them in my back pocket. And sometimes, a fat cat, an oak dresser, or life comes out of nowhere and trips me up. I’ve had to learn to roll with the punches and sometimes get a big, blue, yellow, and purple bruise out of the deal.
I should definitely turn that last line into an inspiration quote. Or perhaps, a Pinterest pin?
I know, it’s totally going to be on a shirt someday.