As a young boy I asked my father, “Dad, will I ever grow out of this clumsy state?” He looked at me rather strangely and replied, “Son, before I can answer that….”
“Yes, Dad?”
“You’re standing on my foot!”
I came back a year later, after my dancing school expulsion, and asked the same question. Just to be safe, I wore sneakers. “I’m hopeful the years will give you the precision and grace of movement you now lack,” my father said while picking up the lamp I’d toppled. “But promise me one thing, Son…”
“What’s that, Dad?” I asked and he replied, “Never get a job at the Picatinny Arsenal!”
He was just being kind. Dozens of years have passed and they have given me practically no precision or grace of movement. I never go to Picatinny Arsenal on their Armed Forces Day events. It wouldn’t be fair to the surrounding towns.
There are thousands of clumsies like me, tripping along life’s highway, ungracefully and uninsurable. You can recognize us by our rallying cry, “OOPS! sorry!”
My theory is that each of us has his own private poltergeist, a mischievous spirit who stands by our side knocking things out of our hands and throwing invisible banana peels in our paths. Normal people will never understand. They think accidents can be prevented by exercising simple precautions.
“Just feel the weight of this exquisite teacup,” a friend insisted one day as we stood before his valuable porcelain collection.
“I’d rather not,” I said. “I’m not very lucky holding delicate things like tea cups and puppies.”
“Nonsense!” He insisted handing me his treasure. “You won’t hurt it and handling it is the only way you can appreciate the featherlike quality of the….OH MY GOD !”
“Terribly sorry, Alphonse. It was so exquisitely light I lost my grip. You were right, though. It was a magnificent object.” I said all this as calmly as possible while edging toward the door, past his gun collection.
Alphonse never forgave me. Like everyone else in the world he doesn’t recognize my clumsiness as an affliction that should be pitied and possibly cured. I would certainly donate to an organization seeking a cure for this psychosomatic condition.
Is it any wonder that we are unfairly guilt-ridden? Isn’t it enough we spend our days in fear, in casts and in traction? Consider my friend and fellow sufferer, Harry who happened to be in Washington State when Mt. St. Helen erupted back in 1980. He telegraphed his anxious family: “Safe and sound. Untouched by the exploding volcano. Arriving home tomorrow. P.S. : I had nothing to do with it.
Imagine That 