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.
Allow me to preface the following with the admission that I am no domestic goddess. I like to bake, am a decent cook and can craft like nobody’s business. But I can’t sew or fix the plumbing and as I’ve recently learned, am the last person you want to call if you have a construction need.
I bought a new TV last fall, which required a TV stand to sit upon. I should have just brought the guy from the store home with me. Even with an apprentice, we built the unit upside down. Then after flipping it, we still hadn’t learned our left from our right. To say the 32 nails that required installation were a nightmare would be an understatement.
Last weekend, I bought some shelves to you know, hold things. After settling on a set of three cubes of varying sizes, I thought, “How hard could this be?” Oh, how I should have known better. When it comes to construction, Barbara the Builder I am not.
The first challenge came immediately after opening the box. I had to find a place on the wall to hang these inevitable cubes from Hell. I set my sights on a high position and went to town. Did I use a ladder? Pish posh. I didn’t even use my bed for support. No sooner was the hole made, that I realized I had already fucked up the wall.
I went to a different wall. This one was going to be more cooperative, I could feel it. I began to carve a hole again, with more success than the previous attempt. Feeling a little too confident, I “measured” how far apart the corresponding hole would need to go in order to hang the first cube. Measure once, cut twice I say. And so I fucked up again.
Not quite far enough apart, I tried to wedge the cube’s nails into their respective places. After a few labored attempts and a handful more curse words, I gave up in frustration. It was dinnertime and I had bottles of alcohol with my name on them.
After returning from dinner, I decided that six glasses of sangria were precisely enough fuel for me to finish the job. I hung the largest cube sideways to form a diamond. Sure, it wasn’t going to hold much. But it looked pretty, in an avant garde (fancy for “weird”) kind of way.
I successfully hung the other two cubes the same way … mainly out of necessity, as I’d ruined a few of the plastic nails already. This mishmash of diamonds on my wall were edgy compared to those bare white walls and I was even able to fit a trophy into one of them. For those playing at home, it was NOT a trophy for my handiwork.
In all honesty, I’m not even surprised that the home-improvement job didn’t go as planned. The surprise instead came after I didn’t bleed or cry.
I haven’t always been like this, but it appears I will be a lousy handyman for some time.
I can’t figure out where I went wrong in life that I can’t handle the most basic of home-repair tasks. In my Girl Scout days, I eagerly participated in workshops where I got to use my hands and make birdhouses and coin banks. Now the only screwdriver I enjoy in my hand is two parts vodka.
And hard hat or not, I can still wear a utility belt to carry my flask.