I don't usually think of myself as a clumsy or stupid person. But my body and mouth rebelliously tell a different story. Like the Thanksgiving I was playing Pictionary with my entire extended family.
I was partnered with my cousin, Greg, who was a college student. I have no idea what the word was nor what the clues he was drawing were, but I vividly remember yelling out in a strong and clear voice "nutsack!" Greg looked at me with such surprise on his face. And then launched into a giggling fit such that he could no longer hold a pencil, let alone coherently draw clues . . .
And there was the housewarming party for another cousin, Leslie. Leslie is one of those people whose home is always neat as a pin even though she has two children and a rambunctious dog. She's so tidy and together that she opted to put white carpeting in her family room.
We were extremely careful to insist that Gabe, still 3 at the time, eat and drink only on the patio outside so we wouldn't have any unfortunate carpet accidents.
Naturally, I was the one who dropped a strawberry margarita on the floor. The white carpeted floor. And it splashed all over the back of the white couch. I don't even know how it happened. I wasn't tipsy. Nobody bumped me. I didn't trip. It just slipped out of my hand . . .
A couple weeks ago at work I was waiting on a stunning younger man. Does anyone else have the problem of being klutzy once a month related to menstrual cycle? I do. Waiting on him I kept dropping things and generally making an idiot of myself. Anyone in the world looking on would have thought I was flustered because I was taken with his handsomeness. But I wasn't. I was just being me.
The piece de resistance was when, at the very end of the transaction, I was handing him the bag with his medications and I managed to scoop up my name badge too--as though I was attempting to not-so-casually encourage him to give me a call.
While I was strangling myself with the lanyard and, red faced, trying to untangle it from his hand, he was chuckling at me. I was dying and wishing I could say, "No really--I'm not coming on to you, I'm just short-bus special."
I could tell a hundred stories like that. So it came as no surprise to my darling husband the other night when I again found myself in a bit of a jam.
Sitting at the computer, I had an itch on my knee. I was alone, it was dark and I was wearing yoga pants. Seemed like a fine idea to put my hand inside the waistband of my pants, reach down to my knee and scratch.
My bracelet got caught on my pants seam. Really caught. And I couldn't dislodge it. I had to walk into the other room, bent over double with my hand still in my pants, and ask hubby to unhook my hand from my knee. I was laughing so hard I could barely explain to him what had happened.
Not that he was asking.
He's used to me and my problems by now.