Claude Strikes Again!

Before the teen years started turning my mother’s hair gray, my insane klutziness was the cause of her frequent trips to the hair salon for a cover-up dye job. My mother was never sure if I would make it through the day unscathed……or even alive. I could, as she so eloquently put it, trip over the patterns in carpets.

Growing up (back in the days of yore) before cell phones or even voicemail for that matter, we had a little hallway niche that held our landline and answering machine. Sadly, this old technology involved many connected wires that were left dangling. Our answering machine was frequently replaced as I would trip over the phone cords and send the poor machine flying into the wall on a monthly basis.

For all my clumsiness, I only had one cracked head and one broken bone in my childhood years. I was generally just covered with a multitude of scratches and bruises and my room was filled with knick knacks and such that I had broken in one of my klutz attacks.

My mother nicknamed me “Claude” (as in clod)!

The scariest day in my family was not the day I received a driver’s license or any other age appropriate milestone event but rather the day I got my first pair of “high heeled shoes” – age 12. I think my mother was convinced that my clumsiness would result in a fall of epic proportions and she would be called to my school to identify my body. Cause of death – “tripped on own shoes”.

The klutz in me did not go away as I grew older. However, it has taken extended vacations. I am either more conscious of my surroundings and therefore less clumsy or more resilient and less likely to cause serious bodily harm. I do admit that I stub my toes weekly and have at least one mystery bruise at any given time.

My boyfriend has met “Claude” on a few occasions. I think my “Claude” personality amuses him to no end and he has stopped asking where the scratches or bruises came from and has come to accept that his girlfriend is prone to occasional bouts of klutziness.

And then today happened!

As I was walking out of my house and down the stairs to the driveway (yes, I AM taking a risk whenever stairs are involved), I slipped on the worlds tiniest patch of early morning dew iciness and went tumbling forward. Luckily, I know the drill. At the first sign of clumsy unsteadiness I toss my hands forward to break the fall. Sadly it was concrete blacktop and I scraped the palms of my hands and landed…kerplunk….on both knees…..taking all the skin off in the fall.

So what do I do? Cry? Get upset? Freak out?

Not I!

I shake it off and chalk it up to the return of the 5 foot tall klutz and am thankful that I am not fully grown as I generally don’t have far to tumble. I get into my car and dutifully take a cell phone picture of my scraped up knee and send it off to my caring boyfriend. I was thinking that perhaps some loving words of sympathy might make me feel better.

His text response after receiving the picture:

“DUDE – you need to start wearing protective gear 24/7!”