Barreling out of my car, arms loaded up fit to burst with grocery bags, I tilted back on my right heel, lifting my left knee to nudge the car door shut with my toes. As I tottered there on one foot like some sort of over-burdened flamingo, the gallon of milk hanging tenuously from my left pinkie finger slipped... and exploded on the garage floor.
In a normal person, this episode would be followed by cursing, lurching about to reposition the bags and stem the flow of white across the garage floor.
For me, it was just another day. I sighed, muttered, "Oh! Oh, help!", fumbled the groceries back into the car and quickly lifted the damaged carton at an angle to keep it from leaking any more milk. A trail of white splotches followed me into the kitchen where I transferred the remaining milk to a pitcher and hollered to my husband to come help me with damage control.
He also barely batted an eye.
See, I am not exactly what you would call "graceful". A more accurate label, if you're into that kind of thing, would be "walking disaster" or perhaps "gravity-challenged" for the politically correct.
I have dropsies like nobody's business. And when I'm not dropping things, I'm running into things. In the course of an average day, yelps of pain and muttered curses hang around me like a cloud as I bump my head, my hip, my elbow, smash my fingers, my toes, my knees. I have had a pair of matching bruises on each hip for so long that I am now fairly convinced they have become part of my genetic material.
Kurt finds it all very amusing. Every night at dinner, as I drop pasta on my shirt (because, yes, I do it every night), he grins like I've just told him his stock options have hit $50. Honestly, he delights in my awkwardness. It gives him golden opportunities, left and right, to be the Big Strong Man as I bounce around on one foot moaning and groaning that THIS TIME I am positive I really broke my foot, for sure.
Even my girls think nothing of my foibles. I tripped going up (yes, UP) the stairs earlier this week, barely managing to save myself without ending up in an unsightly pile at the bottom of the stairs. My three-year-old daughter... giggled.
"Oh, Mama," says she. "You are so silly! You sure did take a tumble!".
There is a reason my mother didn't name me Grace.