If four syllables describe me better, I’ve yet to find them. I’m the queen of accidental self-injury, breaking things, and ruining everything! I’m Lucille Ball re-incarnate, down to the mournful wail of defeat. Please refer to fig. A:
A Brief History of Me Falling Down:
– on my fifth birthday, I broke my arm falling off the swing set.
– ~age 8, I sustained a permanent scar playing jump rope with a hose.
– ~age 10, I slide backwards down carpeted stars, ripping my shin open.
– age 12, middle school. I trip and hurl the pile of books and papers I had hugged to my chest all the way down the foreign language class hallway.
– age 17, acting class with the teacher I idolized. My attempt at to prat fall during a Commedia Della Arte monologue project resulted in a contused wrist and shameful bandage.
– last week, I stood up from the couch, and my foot got caught in my wide-leg pajama pants, sprawled across the floor and cut my hand.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve embraced my tempestuous relationship with gravity. I’ve learned that the best way to save face after a fall is to laugh it off – pretend to be the cute, klutzy heroine of your own Bridget Jones story! Wink and smile and don’t ever let them see you cry. Or bleed.
Clumsiness by itself wouldn’t be so bad, unfortunately, my accident-prone nature veers way past endearing trips and falls and careens into carelessness. On my 30th birthday up at a cabin in the Adirondacks, I thoughtlessly poured a very expensive bottle of 100 proof whiskey into a Sangria I was making (instead of the bourbon I’d intended on), producing a fruit compote so alcoholic it was basically undrinkable. OOPS!
Cooking-while-careless is disastrous, if not downright dangerous! Recently, while opening and draining cans of beans for chili, I mistakenly drained an entire can of vegetable broth right down the sink. It’s only broth, I know this, and nobody drowned in the lake after drinking my noxiously potent sangria. You say, “It’s okay, these things happen,” and I flinch before I see that look in your eyes that says, How could she be so careless? Oh how do I wish I knew the answer to that question.
But wait, there’s more: careless mistakes are laughable compared to the mysterious force
I cannot seem to control: breaking things. I have dropped more mugs
than I could ever afford to replace. I broke the garbage disposal in
the rental house in Reno. It’s like living through the beginning stage of discovering a superpower I’ve yet to learn how to manage. Remember the time I accidentally punched through the bottom of my coffee machine while washing it? If only my strength could help instead of harm! Build instead of break! What sort of villain am I doomed to become?! I’d shake my fist at the sky, but given my luck, I’d give myself a black eye! Go figure!
And yes, I would like to be less “accident prone” but how? How can you plan to avoid accidents if they are, by definition, accidental?
How do
I stop breaking things: stop handling anything delicate? How do I
avoid carelessness: even when I’m paying careful attention, something is
bound to elude me because I can’t mind everything at once! And how do I avoid falling down? Always check to make sure you have sure footing, always be looking down? What will I miss by looking down all the time?
If that’s the solution, I’ll take my chances being accident prone! I’d rather look up – and risk falling down a manhole – accident prone and proud!
Does anyone have a Band-Aid?
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