You Had Me At 'Klutz'

I am not a graceful woman. At least, not with my movements. My mind is always working faster than my feet. I started with gymnastics, but quickly grew too tall for the sport. My parents then suggested dance classes, which taught me rhythm, but failed to correct my clumsiness. Still, I kept at it.

I got involved in piano lessons for posture, competitive jump rope for dexterity, basketball for agility, skiing for speed, volleyball for power, golf for aim, softball for depth perception, archery for hand-eye coordination; all of which made me a better musician and athlete, but none of which extinguished my klutzy tendencies.

Then I debated my footwear. Perhaps if I switched to spike heels, I could learn to walk like a lissome ballerina. I definitely improved my balance, but limber, I was not. Wedges, flip-flops, sneakers, platforms, clogs, pumps - flats or heels, didn't make a difference. And thus, I grew to accept that, although I could plie, jog, waltz, shoot a jump shot and a bullseye, drive a golf ball 180 yards and race down a mountain, no matter how badly I desired grace of motion, I would always be a goof who trips on her own two feet.

That characteristic never fails to rear its ugly head at exactly the wrong time. For instance, I took a particularly handsome gentleman out for an early birthday dinner last night. In an effort to be slightly romantic, I dressed up in a skirt and heels. Following dinner, I was wandering up the staircase and somehow missed the last step. I did a face-first nose dive onto the floor and left a big black skid mark from my shoe on the hardwood panels. Classy. And humbling. Poor guy has also accidentally been kicked, head-butted and poked in the eye. I'm such a charmer!

We're going out again Thursday.