In my younger days I was a dependable source of many a good, hearty chuckle. For one,  I was an expert at self-deprecating humor. I looked at it more as a way of protecting my fragile self-esteem than a solid route to becoming the funniest girl in the room. If I beat someone to the punch by making fun of myself, it left them with nothing to say.

But that’s not what I was most well-known for.

I was what you could call a super-clutz. I wasn’t your run of the mill oops-I-stubbed-my-foot-on-that-chair clutz. I was a oh-holy-hell-I’ve-fallen-AGAIN clutz. For years and years, when I would get together with friends, they would laugh and laugh at one of my many embarrassing incidents.

For instance,  there was the time I was concert mistress for my city’s youth symphony. Sounds pretty hoity-toity, heh? You betcha. We were playing at THE concert hall, and the rest of the symphony was on stage doodly-doodly-doing, practicing and carrying on. The concert master or mistress always arrives on stage after the rest of the symphony has sat down so it was my turn to enter.

Picture it with me: Everyone else is out there doing their thing. And so it’s time for me to enter. After making it a few feet onto the stage, the audience begins their applause…do I need to tell you what sort of ego boost this is? Probably not, right? Okay, so are you with me? Few feet on stage…I’ve got one hand holding on to my violin and bow, the other hand is holding the bottom of my beautiful gown. Such a proud moment for me…until the heel of my shoe got caught in the hem of my beautiful gown and I ALMOST did a face plant right there in front of God and everybody! Sweat started pouring from my armpits and I was so freaking jittery it took forever to regain my composure. So freaking embarrassing. Uhhh.

Then there was high school graduation. Yea. That. Unlike a lot of high school graduates today, I was actually proud to be graduating. Maybe there was something wrong with me. I don’t know. But regardless, this graduation ceremony was a shining moment for me – for many reasons I won’t get into – and I was so excited to get my diploma. As I’ve said before, I have a twin sister, she went before me and before she took off I remember giggling, telling her not to break her leg. Harty-har-har. Anyway, yea…so then it’s my turn…Can you guess what I did? If you guessed that I tripped on the last step and stumbled across the stage finally regaining my footing right before reaching the principle, why, you guessed right. Nice job. The one thing that saved my reputation was that I had no reputation. So it worked out. The only people that noticed were the people there to see me…and I have the video somewhere to prove it.

You guys want one more? You do? Well alright then…at least these super-clutz moments have given me fodder for my blog. Well worth my embarrassment if you ask me.

So remember when I told you I used to live in Texas? No? Okay, well I used to live in Texas. And I used to dress like a cowgirl and go to country bars and drink Budweiser (yuckie hell! what was I thinking!!?). And for those of you who’ve never been western dancing in a Texas country bar, let me tell you – it. is. competitive. Other chicks may lie to you and tell you they don’t know what I’m talking about but I’m telling it to ya straight. And what I mean by competitive is that when a girl gets asked to dance, that girl is eyeing every girl left standing around the dance floor giving them the most smug, hey-look-at-me-I-got-asked-to-dance-and-you-didn’t-maybe-next-time-loser look she has. It’s true. I’ve been given it. I’ve given it. It’s one of those things you just have to deal with at the ‘ole country and western dance halls in Texas. Just like you have to get used to the old-OLD dudes slithering around the bar, breathing too close to your face with bourbon breath and graying five o’clock shadow.

Anyway, this one night I got really lucky. This hot-hot-H-H-HOT cowboy asked me to dance. Ohhh Nelly. He was all starched up. Had a pretty hat, clean-shaven face…smelled so good. And, he was sober to boot. Boo- ya! Wait, I don’t think anyone said that back then. But anyway…he asked me to dance and  carefully led me to the dance floor. I had seen him dance and knew he was a good dancer. And because I thought myself a decent dancer I was pretty psyched to get to dance with him. So out to the floor we went. And it was better than I thought. Oh, nice rhythm. He didn’t try to get too close. He led well. Very polite. Thank you Cowgirl Goddess!

He asked me to dance straight into the next song which is usually a real good sign that a drink would soon follow so I was even more pumped.

So the second song ended and he leaned in very politely and asked me if he could walk me to my table. Wow! Could this guy get. any. better? I’m sure I said something witty that meant, Why of course. I’m also sure I was wondering how my ass looked because he was no doubt checking it out. What about my long blonde hair? Was it looking as awesome as I hoped?

Next thing I know the toe of my Justin boot got hemmed up on the lip of the dance floor (why the hell was there a step going UP off the dance floor??) and I swear to you my legs spread out in some mangled front/back form of the spread eagle and I saw hands come from every angle of guys trying to keep me from falling but when Super-Clutz biffs it, it’s always a doozy and there was no stopping me. Down I went.

I popped up off the floor, laughing like a crazy person, turned to the fine-looking cowboy and tried to decipher his face all while cursing myself, “Fucking great! Smooth move ya IDIOT!” I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next but he just asked me if I was okay as he stared me in the face. He even looked like he really cared. Weird. I’m here to tell you, if the roles were reversed and some dude bit it right in front of me I would have evaporated into the crowd before the birds whistled their first peep. Gone I tell you.

Still laughing, I asked him if he still wanted to walk me to my table and guess what he did – he tipped his hat, looked at me sheepishly and said, “If you’ll still let me.”

WHAT. THE….

In the end I did get a few dates out of him. He was a super nice guy but he had kids and kidlens were so not my thing back then. Yuckie.

Anyway, that was that.

One of the good things about growing older is that my leg coordination seems to have matured and I don’t trip and fall down nearly as much. The bad thing, however, is that instead of constantly tripping on stuff now I’m always whacking my elbow, my hands…or hip. In fact, it’s these incidents that made me think to write this post. For example, so far today I have hit my hip once, elbow twice, and backed up into the edge of an open door as I was sliding Addy around in her high-chair. Doh! Doh! and Doh! again.

My husband thinks it’s just reeeal funny when I hit my elbow – because I do it, like, ten times a day. When I’m reaching into the washer. When I’m going through a door way. When I’m putting dishes away. When I’m getting into the car. When he hears my unmistakable shriek, he’s all, “Elbow again?”  Chuckle chuckle.

Oh, shove it, Husband.

I often wonder if my kids will get my super-clutz gene. Arden’s pretty clumsy but from what I understand, the third year is the most accident prone of a person’s life so it’s still too soon to tell. I have NEVER seen my husband fall down. EVER. I’m hoping they favor his side in that regard. Guess we’ll see.

I better start teaching them how to make fun of themselves while they’re still young, just in case.

Word.