In the spirit of celebrating dorkiness, here are just a few reminders of why I’m not cool…
When I was about 4 years old, I was running through the house and tripped. I fell face-first, cutting open my forehead, nose and chin. I still remember going to the ER to get the butterfly stitch above my left eye. On days when I don’t wear makeup, you can still see the scars on my face. This is the reason your mother tells you not to run in the house.
In kindergarden, I was playing in the floor of our living room near where my grandmother was sitting in a recliner, which just happened to rock back and forth. Mesmerized by the sway of the big white puffy chair, I decided I would experiment and see what would happen if I stuck something between the chair and the base. One of those just happened to be my finger. I don’t think I have words to describe how it felt. My nail turned a few colors before finally giving up and coming off. My fingernail eventually grew back, but it’s still a little on the flat side. I wish I were kidding.
In the second grade, I had the best bike ever. It was pink with a white basket, and fluorescent-colored beads on the chrome spokes of the wheels. It was pimp. One summer day I was playing in our driveway, riding my bike in silly circles. And I thought to myself… I wonder what would happen if I put my foot in the spokes of the front wheel. I can tell you with certainty that your leg will twist and you will fall of your bike and then the bike will fall on top of you. And then you will cry. A lot.
Just after college, I moved into a loft-style apartment on the second and third floors of an older Victorian-style building. The wood stairway leading the front door was narrow and the steps were small. One morning, as I rushed out the door late for work, I missed one of those little steps and crash landed a couple of stairs down. Did I mention that I was carrying a full glass of chocolate milk? It wasn’t enough that I was in intense pain… No, I had to experience complete and total humiliation. There was milk on the steps, on the wall, on the door, on my clothes, and (lucky me!) in my hair. I ended up with a sore sciatic nerve and a dark purple bruise the size of Texas on the back of my thigh. Like I always say, go big or go home.
Speaking of steps… I’m one of the few who are gifted with the ability to trip up the stairs as well as down. Does that make me ambidextrous? Probably not in a good way.
It’s always nice to see the dorkiness of others. I love that the most painful of your incidents were lead by the “I wonder what would happen” thought. It’s always that thought that gets us into trouble.
“Go big or go home.” I am going to have to remember that one! The foot in the spokes incident sounds bad. Very bad!
I think I might have had the same bike…not so pimp for a boy.
I can fall up or down stairs as well. I consider it a gift.