News at 11.
Sometimes I think this sort of thing only happens to me. How is it that I open a cereal bar wrapper, a perfectly average thing to do, and get crumbs in my eye?!? I wasn't testing out some fancy, new-fangled way to open the package. I wasn't showing off. I wasn't trying to open it while kick-boxing. Just sitting at my desk opening a wrapper and got a flurry of crumbs in my eye.
My daughter is clumsy too. Her pediatrician said, "Clumsiness is genetic. Is anyone else clumsy in the family?" I sheepishly raised my hand. Sorry, baby girl. You won't be the star of the basketball team. My bad.
I can assure you that the crumbs in the eye thing is not an isolated incident. Scarcely a day goes by that I don't drop something, stumble, get hit with a flying object, slam my finger in a door or otherwise make an idiot of myself.
Hours after my mid-afternoon yogurt, I realized I had a huge drippy blob of yogurt on the neckline of my blouse. I had talked to someone for over a half-hour, completely unaware! Mind you they didn't tell me either, unless I missed some subtle nods and gestures, which, I'll admit, is entirely possible.
The other day I about cut off the pad of my pinkie in a VSlicer. It is still all bandaged up. I'm reminded of my mishap every time I hit the return key.
If you don't have an experience with a VSlicer, it's one of those things you would've seen Billy Mays (God Rest His Soul) hawk on TV. It's two over-sized razor blades in a V-formation encased in plastic with a handy guard for your safety. Didn't use the guard. Ooops. There should be a law against people like me owning and using devices like that. There isn't.
Last week I burned myself on a microwave Chicken Quesadilla. The cheese was like molten lava. Of course, the warning on the package said, "Don't touch this thing for at least a minute, you moron!" (or something like that). I'm the reason they write these package warnings.
During the holidays, I went out at night to put something on the patio table on my friends back porch. She neglected to tell me the porch was tiered. I slipped and completely wiped out with half my body on the top tier and half on the bottom tier. When she went out there the next day she said that the imprint in the snow was reminiscent of a crime scene chalk outline.
It would seem that I'm mostly a danger to myself, not others. I do have a few friends who've been the victim of flying pieces of celery, bonked in the head with rubber stress balls or soaked to the skin with an ice-cold margaritas. They might disagree but I can say, with certainty, that nobody was hurt in the making of those incidents. The stress ball friend said it hurt but I think he's just a big sissy.
It's only about half the time that my misadventures are a result of my own lack of grace. The rest of the time, it would seem that I am a magnet for tiny disasters.
For example, this weekend at a Fourth of July BBQ, the wind caught hold of some one's plate and it hit me in the head. How can I be blamed for that calamity?
I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business as they power-washed my building's windows. Why am I suddenly wet? The window was open just a tiny crack. Just enough to give me and my iMac a little shower. Fabulous.
Another time at work my boss's son was playing with one of those rubber stress piggies that the eyes bug out of when you squeeze it due to the strange, nameless liquid inside. Who do you think got covered in Made-In-China Mystery SARS Goo? Yours truly.
I'm so used to it. I'm never surprised when these things happened. My reactions are typically:
Why wouldn't that pig toy explode all over my face?
Naturally, I dropped cheese in my purse.
Of course, my phone fell out my purse into a mud puddle.
Yes, I got pineapple pulp in my eye. So what?
What can I do? It's part and parcel of who I am. I've come to expect these mishaps and laugh about them, as have those around me. At the same Fourth of July party, my friend's mom said, "I'm disappointed. I expected you'd fall!".
Apparently, my reputation precedes me.