Clumsy, or a curse?

*****Thanks for all your wonderful comments and prayers. Still at the library. The GMC broke down last week and I was at home; I was not very happy. The thing with my internet is this. I'm switching over to DSL, and they canceled my dial up account. DSL will be active vnext week, I thought this week, but I was wrong.


I am cursed with the ability of getting myself into awkward, if not downright embarrassing, situations.

It started in high school; on the opening night of a play my drama class was performing for the public. I was a main character, and with the exception of a butterfly doing the waltz in my stomach, I felt great. On the way to the school, I ran through my lines in my head, and tried to relax. “Break a leg!” my dad said as I got out of the car. He had no idea I’d take what he said literally

The dressing rooms over the stage were a beehive of activity as some of my classmates frantically searched for missing pieces of costumes, while others rushed to get their hair and make-up done. We had a couple of hours to get dressed, but time soared by, and all too soon, our drama teacher came in and announced, “Curtain in fifteen minutes.” Make-up was thrown on the counter, shoes and wigs were hastily donned, and groans of “I’m not ready yet,” filled the air.

Finally, we were done, and the cast made its way down the steep stairway to the backstage area. I was the last one to enter the stairway. I was dressed in a floor-length satin dress, and was wearing two-inch heels. As I tottered down the steps, I thought, I hope my heel doesn’t get caught in this stupid dress. No sooner had I thought it, it happened. As I stepped down to the next step, my heel caught in the hem, and down I went, hitting my knees on the rim of the stair.

To this day, I don’t know how I did it, but as I fell down the next step, I pulled my legs out from under me, and bounced down the remaining ten steps on my butt. The slickness of the dress and of the steps made stopping impossible. With each step, my dress rose higher up my legs; my classmates moved aside as I bounced by, their mouths open in shock. “Really Deb, this is no time for games. Stop it!” one classmate yelled as I bounced past.

“I CAN’T!” I yelled back. I reached the bottom, ahead of everyone else. Despite the throbbing pain in my knees, I smiled at my buddies and chirped, “Well, I beat everyone down!” My dress was pulled up past my thighs, and everyone was treated to the sight of the red track shorts I wore underneath.

One of my friends, Chelsea, raced ahead, looking for the drama teacher, the others helped me to my feet, straightened my dress for me, and handed me my wig, which I had lost in the process. I fought back tears as I stood up; the pain in my knees was almost unbearable.

Chelsea returned with the principal, who also doubled as my cross-country coach and the drama sponsor. “Let’s get her backstage,” he said gruffly. Before I could protest, one of my muscular male cast mates swept me off my feet and carried me.

“I can walk . . .I think.”

“Just relax and enjoy the ride. Pretend you’re a princess,” he quipped, grinning at me.

My principal examined me tender knees, and deduced I had only badly bruised myself. I was, however, to sit in a chair backstage with ice on my knees between stage appearances. After all, the show had to go on.

Yesterday, I found out the curse was hereditary. I was at the grocery store checkout line with my oldest, when I turned and saw him sitting on the floor.

“Why are you sitting there? Get off the floor!” I snapped.

Red-faced, Seth rose from the floor and dusted himself off. “I don’t know what happened. I was just leaning on the cart, then stepped on my own feet and fell.”

Both Seth and I seem to have a problem with our feet in public. Perhaps we should go barefoot.