Trippin’

Some people are effortlessly graceful.

They can walk into a room without tripping, eat food without spilling and wear high heels without breaking an ankle.

I am not one of those people. I’m incurably, ridiculously, unfailing klutzy.

My clumsiness is a well-acknowledged fact among my family and friends. But in case my klutzy ways are ever in doubt, there is plenty of evidence to prove my affliction.

Every white shirt, skirt or dress I own has some sort of tomato sauce stain. Even my wedding dress is decorated with the tell-tale mark of some unwieldy chicken Parmesan.

My love of tomato-based products has even started to effect my clothing selections.

Case in point, the vast majority of my clothing is red. Most people would chalk this up to me being from Nebraska, where we’re all forced to wear red. However, my mostly-red wardrobe is not a tribute to the Huskers. That is not the case at all.

Truthfully, most of my wardrobe is of the crimson-variety because I’m bound to spill some tomato sauce on it anyway. Having red clothing to begin with makes for easier stain removal. This is a must because otherwise I would have been forced to spend half of my income on stain-removing products.

Another sign of my clumsy ways is a little more painful than my tomato-decorated wardrobe.

Remember when you were young and you would constantly fall of your bike and scrap your knee? Or accidentally get blind-sided by a wayward softball when playing catch?

As a child, my friends and I were always covered in bruises, scratches and cuts. As a result, our summer wardrobes inevitably included Band-Aids. These bandages were the inescapable result of some high-spirited games of hide and go seek or soccer.

We wore those Band-Aids with pride. They were the badges of summer fun. We all had them, not because we were clumsy, but because we were kids.

However, eventually my friends grew up and stopped falling off their bikes and scrapping their knees. Apparently as they grew, they also learned to better operate their once gangly limbs. Applying Band-Aids was no longer a daily ritual for them.

I, on the other hand, didn’t grow out of it. Technically, since I’m the same height I was in fifth grade, I guess you could say I didn’t grow out of much.

My friends have argued this lack of growth should in fact make me more graceful. They claim my “lower center of gravity” should help me avoid my many trips, stumbles and fumbles.

They’re wrong.

My petite stature doesn’t make me more graceful, even if it seems like it should.

In fact, my height-challenged nature seems to make me the wrong size for everything. For instance, I’m too short to reach a vast majority of the items in my kitchen cabinets. However, I am just tall enough to hit my head of the bottom of the cabinet doors almost daily.

Though my head has seen many bumps and my knees have been scrapped more times than I can count, I don’t really mind being a unintentional slapstick comic.

After all, they make some really cute Band-Aids nowadays that look great with all my red shirts. Who said Band-Aids aren’t a fashion accessory?

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