Sunday, November 1, 2009

Olympic Klutzist

Look me up and down, and you'll always see enough scratches and bruises to make you suspect I'm being abused. But the culprit is me. That's because I register off the scale on the Klutz-o-meter. I think, therefore I "klutz."

I mean that last statement literally. Supposedly if you're constantly falling, banging your limbs into surfaces, and nicking yourself, you should look back to what you were thinking immediately beforehand. The theory is your last thought was probably negative. For me, that thought is just as often positive. The problem isn't what I'm thinking, it's that I'm thinking. I shouldn't be allowed to think at all at the same time that I'm moving my body through space.

My most war-torn body parts are my hands. Before they meet with an object I'm reaching for, my hands will first slam into a counter, a wall, a piece of furniture, an appliance, or a fragile heirloom. The dangers of cooking for someone like me? Don't even get me started. Add in sharp knives and fire, and I turn into a charred cartoon character just blown up by a box of Acme dynamite.

Here's a great example of my supreme klutzitude. I was once in the bathtub and picked up the cordless phone to make a call. Then I leaned forward to turn off the water with my right hand, thereby dunking my left hand and the phone. I did this because I forgot the phone was in my left hand. My mind is deteriorating as fast as my physical coordination. It's amazing to me that I can still put coherent sentences together and blog. Jiffy Minnesota, grumble manhole. Eel sweat.

Sometimes I reason that the "inanimate objects that I knock into must actually move into my path. Also, is the distance between my arm and the wall shorter than I think, or is my arm longer than I think? These are the existential inquiries I ponder for hours, in between ice packs.

I should start a Klutz Anonymous support group that meets at my house. Only problem is, can you imagine my poor abode after our meetings? Ten broken vases, twenty spilled drinks and thirty blood-stained carpet patches later, I might have to sue.

There should be a sign on everything containing mass, warning, "Objects are closer – and harder – than they appear." That way I would collide with things less often, keep more blood on the inside of my body. Or I could encase myself in that plastic "blister pack" packaging for 16 hours a day. I haven't yet found a way to abuse myself while sleeping, but stay tuned.

Maybe I'll just sit motionless in an empty room all day, because keeping myself and others safe would be a great excuse to finally get some quiet time. Being a klutz is also a great excuse for why I've not become anything respectable like a mother, doctor, carpenter, seamstress, or chef (as noted). I can also tell friends who ask me to help them move or baby sit that I can't because it's too risky.

Hmm. This klutz thing isn't such a high price to pay for not having to accomplish things or help people. That's why blogging suits me well. It's fun and it keeps me relatively immobile and off the streets. Wahoo!

Whoops. Got a little too excited there. Paper cut.