For anyone who’s ever wondered why the nickname on the back of my baseball jersey says ‘Klutz’, here’s a brief sampling:
- One day in high school, I ran head-first into a wall playing some stupid ball game. I was maybe 15 or 16 and my mom spent the rest of that evening (and probably all night) worrying about whether I had a concussion.
- In university, while swimming in the pool of a friend’s apartment building, I swam head-first into the wall (notice a trend here) while playing Marco Polo. No concussion to worry about this time, just a really bad headache.
- About five years ago, I tripped over who knows what (my own two feet probably) while walking with some friends to the bar. I rolled my ankle and spent the next few weeks on crutches – having torn a couple of ligaments. Now, note the wording of the above sentence, I was on my way to the bar. In other words, I had not yet had a drink and I can say that with absolute certainly because I had DD’d us all there from an earlier party.
Yesterday, I thought it would be fun to try falling down my basement stairs. I have no idea how I managed it, because I’ve walked those stairs at least 500 times in the last three years. I just slipped, I guess.
Thankfully, I only fell the four stairs to the first landing, but four stairs were far enough. Today, I’m sporting a rather large bruise on my ass, another large bruise on my forearm, and a hip that is so sore I’m having to walk around like an old lady. I guess it could’ve been worse – I could’ve broken something or really messed up my back (since I already have problems with a couple of discs). But oddly enough, my back doesn’t even hurt today.
But I still freakin’ hurt…and I still feel like a freakin’ idiot, or at the very least, like the klutz that I am.