I am a complete and utter klutz.
As I gingerly type this blog with sprained ankle tightly wrapped, aching elbow slightly elevated, and my spectacular body art of scrapes and bruises brightening my skin, I contemplate the unknowable possibility of human movement and grace. School playgrounds and above all PE were a long torment of trying to control my extremities (doesn’t the word extremities say it all?). On an athletic scale of 1 to 10, I think I’ve always been about a 3 (okay maybe a 2).
So let’s take a look at my personal horror show – the Olympics. Did you see what those people do? They contort into split second pretzels, launch into the air, leap over ridiculously high obstacles and take the human body to the edge of insanity.
Wait! Maybe it’s not a horror show, but rather pure fantasy. It has to be all special effects! How else could those people intentionally erupt into spins, jumps and dives, and walk away with cheers and ecstatic grins?
Let me tell you about my Olympics – the klutz Olympics. I careen into doors, walls, and the edge of every table in existence. I can trip over a breath of air. My teenage students used to watch with hard-wrung pity as I lurched between desks, feet catching every book, bag or chair leg. I’m convinced my gravestone will read “Death by Backpack.”
I was outside, supervising a bunch of said students, and failed to notice the lip on the edge of the sidewalk. As I pitched face-first onto the pavement, my life of ignoble tumbles flashed before my eyes.
Nooooooo…it’s going to hurt!
So I lay motionless in the grit, feeling the sweet warmth of the sun, mentally cataloguing the shards of pain slicing through me. While the kids rushed to find the nurse, I philosophically contemplated the Olympic gymnastics.
In the klutz Olympics, I think I’ve earned a bronze.