Kristie Alley fell on Dancing With the Stars last night. It felt all too familiar.
A person like me should not own a two story house. A couple of weeks ago I fell down the stairs. For the third time.
The first time I fell down my stairs, I had just moved into our house and Adrian was still in San Francisco about to graduate from dental school. I was recovering from a night of over indulgence with my friend Tracy. The air conditioning repair man knocked on the front door and in my hungover state, I missed the last three stairs and went flying through the air and belly flopped on the tile.
Good thing I am a plus size girl or I would probably be dead.
It took me at least ten minutes to pick myself up from the tile. I was not injured. And yes, the air conditioning repair man was gorgeous. Murphy's Law mandates that all repair men are hot if, and only if, you are hurt, hungover and wearing your doggie flannel pajamas.
The second time I fell down my stairs was all Adrian's fault. Adrian had slept downstairs in our guest room because we had a spat. I went downstairs to try and make up with him at midnight in my underwear and my dog Chewie got underfoot and I fell from the middle of the stairs to the tile. I landed with my right foot underneath me. The pain was excruciating and and Adrian came running out of the guest room when he heard my screams. He has never slept away from me since.
I crawled my way into the living room and Adrian took me to the ER in the morning after I put pants on. I spent weeks on crutches struggling to court every morning for my misdemeanor rotation.
My ankle still gives out when I roller skate. Note to self, I will not let my weak ankle impede my roller derby ambitions.
Just last week, I fell down in the parking lot of the Riverside courthouse. In front of my supervisor. Damn those Payless wedges. My supervisor was very nice about the whole thing. She oohed in sympathy as I writhed in pain holding my knee. She picked up all my files. She told me to go to the doctor. She smiled when she saw my pink suede flats the next day.
If humiliation is good for the soul, my soul is set.
Somehow, I have passed my klutz tendancies down to my tween niece. She is a klutz too. Selena always falls and crashes into things. She spills her drinks on the table at every family dinner (we both do). She breaks everything by her mere touch. Adrian calls it the Mantz effect. I think it has something to do with our mutual love of reading. Maybe we live in a fantasy world and reality is too difficult to navigate.
In the end, at least we are not boring. Everyone wants to be Lucy, not Ethyl. In the end I think being a klutz is kind of cool.
Klutzes of the world unite. You know who you are.