I Do My Own Stunts

I am a dangerous person. The biggest danger is that I can come from nowhere and wreck anything. Literally.

I come by my clumsiness naturally. That is to say, I wasn't graceful once. I've always been clumsy. And I inspire others. My dad dropped me when I was just a wee babe. He of the not dropping much of anything. My dad could walk with planks of wood without hurting himself or others. He could carry many building things in his hands and walk drop free. Me, on the other hand, the most precious of his acquired things, he dropped without even realizing that such a thing could happen. I'm sure he was shocked, and I'm sure my mom kept me far from him for a few months at least.. I credit Velcro Hands, that technology only mothers have, with not dropping me. However, if my hunch is right, and it normally is, she dropped me. It's just that noone ever saw her do it. It's a secret she will take to her grave.

Growing up didn't bring much success. I was coltish, with long awkward legs and arms, my elbows and knees huge knobs on my skinny frame. My head was over big, as if I were trying to retain the "big headed baby" cuteness from my infancy. It wasn't working. I was an awkward child and looked it. I could reach, but I wasn't allowed to carry. Papers would inevitably fall from my hands, outside on windy days. Balls would bounce from my grasp into busy streets. Erasers would slam, with a fuss and a cloud, to the ground if I but looked at them. And heaven forbid if it was my turn to wash the board. Floods of epic proportions my friends. Floods of epic proportions.

Believe me, it didn't get better. I guess my body did grow to fit my head... or, grow closer to the size my head was going for, but my look of awkward destruction did not leave. By this point, I am tripping myself and other people, dropping trays in the lunchroom, somehow getting food fights started. Once, a teacher was hit with blue mashed potatoes, potatoes I had dared someone to dye blue with their ink pen. It wasn't pretty.

Even now, as an adult, I trip over nothings on the floor. I hardly bother to look anymore. I am wary of high, narrow stairs and I've fallen up stairs at least twice. As we speak, my husband is waiting to hear the horrific news that I've somehow managed to stab myself with my knitting needles. It has become a part of me and I know, every now and then, my husband shakes his head at the true knowledge that, in a few years, he may have two more stuntmasters to worry about.