A Girl Named Grace
I’m alive, people. My mom — shout-out to Magz, I know you’re reading — insisted I write a new post, so you can thank her for the following narrative … I am the clumsiest person I know. Present me with any modern-day situation, and I will sure as hell find a way to make it a hot mess.
If there’s a sharp corner, my leg will find it. If there’s something hanging above, my head will bump it. How I’ve made it to nearly age 24 without a broken bone (knock on wood) is a sheer miracle.
It isn’t easy being this awkward. For some time, I was (lovingly?) referred to as “Murphy’s Law.” Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. And Amanda will be happy to figure out just how to get there. What’s more is, I’ll do it all with the timeless “Why-does-this-stuff-always-happen-to-me?” confused look on my face.
I fear that my wedding day will be some monstrous catastrophe … just as previous milestones have been in my life. I took a tumble into the town center lake on my 10th birthday, then glow sticks exploded in my hands in the car —all over my new white overalls too! I slipped and fell in the rain the day before senior prom, ruining my fresh pedicure and busting my knee beyond recognition.
Notice the recurring theme here? I fall. A lot. Tripping UP the stairs happens on a regular basis, not just at my National Junior Honor Society induction in 8th grade. For the amount of shiners and scars I carry with me, you’d think I was part of Fight Club. Don’t be fooled — I’m no badass, just a serial klutz.
Someday, I will overcome my incredible knack for “embarrassing” myself. In the meantime, at least I can laugh through the bumps and bruises along the way.