Confessions of a Klutz

Well, actually - that is the confession. I’m a klutz. A terrible, flailing, bumbling, falling down, spill on myself, CRY ALL THE TIME ABOUT IT - klutz. I’m sure everyone dislikes something about themselves, but mine is so not fixable. ☹

If I had a big nose I could get surgery.
If I was fat I could exercise.
If I was stuck in 80’s perm land, I could get a make over.
Wrinkly people get Botox.
Wine-o’s have Rehab.

But poor sad Marisa...?? NOTHING ☹

I’m the one who turns around from my dresser and walks right into my bed.
I’m the one who takes a drink and immediately dribbles a drop on my new shirt.
I’m the one who bangs her shins on the dishwasher every time the drawer is down.
Tell a funny story and I’m the one who may spit out my drink.
Let me tell the story and I’ll wave my arms around and probably hit you.
I even walk into the occasional door frame.
I twitch and I make funny faces and I snort and I HATE. EVERY. LAST. SECOND. OF. IT.

You want a current story? How about this morning...? Every day I drive about 20 miles to work and I put my make up on. (There’s a certain part leading up to the FWY onramp that is NON moving - so it’s not THAT dangerous) I have on a new all white skirt. I just ask for trouble actually. (WHAT?? I look good in white!) and the mascara wand just flies out of my hand and slow motion bounces across my lap. REALLY? I can’t think of a time this has ever happened - but today, with a white skirt, I have unremovable mascara on it.

I try to be still, calm, slow, and methodical because inside, I JUST KNOW Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn is DYING to come out and say hello. I dream of being the elegant graceful girl that people look at and go WOW. They may say that about me for a second, but then I literally slide like a baseball player slides for home plate right under someone’s table at a Mexican Restaurant or I fall FLAT on my knees in a bar when a friend teasingly pushes my shoulder. Hell, I’m so talented I can fall up AND down a flight of stairs.

Haven’t you read my past stories of when I broke my arm trying to snowboard after some cute boys and fell on a jump? Or when I tried to learn how to spin on my roller blades and broke my elbow? Or when I ran over that lady on my bike, but wound up breaking MY OWN leg instead?

Seriously, I grieve over having to give up the dream of ever being thought of as statuesque or nimble. I talk to my close friends about it and they say “No, Marisa - we love that about you... Your spontaneous and excitable and you tell your stories with such passion and your face shows such expression!” “No no, Marisa, don’t change, that’s who you are, what we know you for!”

OH MY GOD, what? That’s what I’m known for? You think of me and the first thing of endearment that comes to mind is that I’m... THE ABOVE LIST OF TRAGEDY? Is now an appropriate time for sobbing?

I guess when you are in denial of something it sticks with you, so I’m fessing up and hopping this yucky, klutzy, clumsy, goofy side of me will give up the fight and just go away.

GO ON, GET... NO ONE LIKES YOU... NOW SCRAM... and don’t let the door hit you on the wa... well, actually it did just hit you... yep yep, ok that had to hurt, that’s gonna leave a bruise... SIGH - nevermind, come back inside - Let me get the first aid kit...