I backed my ass hard into Noah’s baby gate a few days ago while I was juggling plates into the kitchen. There’s a nasty bruise on my right butt cheek and it aches pretty deep. When I bared my ass to Davy to show him, he dug his index finger right into the middle of it asking, “Is it here?!”
It hurt. A lot. I literally jumped into the air and Davy felt bad but we both laughed.
I can’t believe how much it still hurts. It’s like a got stabbed in the ass without puncture. These things happen to me often because I’m clumsy and I always have been. I was the girl who tripped and slipped and slid and fell every day.
I’ve skied twice in my life. Both times I was taken to the hospital by ambulance after being pulled on the back of a snowmobile down the rest of the mountain. I could go on for an entire blog every day for days if I wanted to.
More than anyone in my life, my brother Danny has seen the most of all my falls. He’s seen some big ones. There was this one time when I was 13 and he was 6 and our family was mini golfing, because we mini golfed like it would an Olympic sport one day, and I fell hard. I tripped on some little mushroom gnome and ripped my pants open and started bleeding from my knee right away. Then there was the time at South Street Seaport I tripped in painfully slow motion down the icy ramp of the pier until I basically belly flopped and nearly crushed my tits in the process, but not before veering away from a little boy who’d been in my path. That’s actually what my brother still remember the most…how I threw my body away from that child and then jerked back just in time to face-plant anyway. I’d like to think I actually saved that child’s life but my brother just laughs hysterically, still, just like he did that day at the Seaport.
I’ve always been clumsy. I am clumsy. But it’s not like I like to be around other clumsy people or anything. That would just be a mess.
My husband Davy’s not clumsy at all. Davy can take apart half your car and put it back together before dinner is ever served. He’s adjusted pretty well to having a clumsy wife. There’s no running to the kitchen anymore when he hears glass breaking. He’ll just ask from whatever room he’s in, what I actually broke. I always answer nothing. Duh.
All that nothing has amounted to lots of trips to Ikea to replenish our numbers of coffee cups and bowls and drinking glasses.
It was worse when I was pregnant, my clumsiness.
It’s better now but clearly the bruise on my ass tells us not.