I have a confession to make. I am probably the world’s clumsiest and most uncoordinated person. Why God decided to wrap both of those things up in the impressive package of me, I have no clue. Maybe to keep me humble? Pshaw.
If I wanted to bore you, I could tell you about kicking the t.v. as a teenager because I couldn’t do the Jane Fonda workout. (It felt much better years later to find out she was getting liposuction to stay trim. Okay I can’t find anywhere to confirm that, but I swear I heard her say it.) Or the horror of aerobics classes. Even trying to help with a teen’s dance class and I couldn’t get ANY of the moves down.
I trip over nothing, over my feet, over nothing, twist my ankle in flip-flops. Once I even dropped my son and tore ligaments in my ankle while wearing Birkenstocks. Which meant I got to wear a walking cast that weighed 50 pounds for 6+ weeks when I was pregnant with Amber. And heaven for-BID there’s uneven pavement that I happen to be walking on. Or when I *thought* I was on the last rung of the ladder while decorating for Christmas. Only I was on the second to the last rung and landed straight legged with a thud heard ’round the world. Talk about jingling your bells. The most embarrassing moment of my life involves falling in a church auditorium packed with 2,000 plus people. All sitting down. As I stood up and fell in the aisle.
By far my best talent in this area is falling down stairs. Once Tyler thought I was just a mass of broken bones and the bottom of the stairs. Nope, my robe just made it look that way. Another time I was carrying a bowl of cereal down the stairs and – timbrrrrrrrrrrr – me on the floor, milk ALL OVER the two story wall. Or the other time I fell and was left with a bruise that measured 8 inches across my rear. How do I know this? I was telling my chiropractor about it and she measured it. And laughed a little too hard if you ask me.
One particular trip down the stairs was more remarkable than the others that all blend together. As I bounced down on my derriere my right arm was hitting every spindle holding up the banister. The spindles are kind of skinny and it hurt like the dickens. The next day I notice long, finger-like marks all up and down my entire arm. The kind you think you’d see on an abused wife. And the biggest problem? It was the middle of August and you cannot get away with wearing long sleeved shirts and not dying of heat stroke in my lovely part of the country.
I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to formulate a plan. If someone asked me what they were, I’d tell them I fell down the stairs. Uh, isn’t that what every abused wife says? OH! I could tell them I really clumsy. Again, isn’t that what they all say? At one point I honestly think I worried one of my acquaintances.
What did I finally do? I just avoided eye contact with as many people as possible for a week or so. AGAIN, exactly what an abused wife does. At least those that knew us best at the time just laughed at the latest misadventure of Cheri.
A little too hard if you ask me.