My friends joke about me walking in to walls, the mystery bruises, a broken toe from attempting high heels. Makeup lasts 2.5 seconds before it becomes panda eye. Tongues are burnt from cups of tea, fingers caught in doors, heads bumped, knees knocked. Hair is poky and mussy, no matter how much I brush it. I try really hard to be a grown up, but you know, it’s a work in progress.
We joke about the Sterel family trait of being un-co. My sister in law and neice have picked it up, possibly in sympathy to the rest of the family. I wonder if I pissed someone off in a past life to live this way.
It’s worse in a professional corporate setting. I’ve hidden cuts and bruises, because of how it might look. I have cuts from shaving my legs and bruises on my arms are so common, I’m still using the ‘walked in to a wall’ excuses. And trust me, I know how it sounds.
Yesterday, a colleague asked for help and I turned to indicate that I was on the phone, but in less than ten seconds, I knocked my knee, broke the arm off my chair, spilt my coffee all over my work notes and all over the carpet. My colleagues are brilliant in maintaining a straight face, but I’m sure they’re inwardly groaning. What next on Suzi’s top ten crazy klutz stories?
My friends are no longer surprised by my stories. The worst one was straightening my hair one Sunday night, whilst still wet. Every girl, woman probably most men understand – SCIENCE – that using intense metal heat on wet hair, is going to be a #epic fail. But all I could think was it was 10.30 at night, I was fuelled by Sunday-night-itis, the anxiety was flipping shit in my stomach and I had wet hair that had to be fixed. So I made an attempt to towel my hair, but let’s be honest, it was dripping. It was too much for my 10 year old GHD straightener. The heat and wet hair connected, causing the GHD to shut down, short circuiting the entire power into the house. So the power shuts off, at the same time that I realise my hair is on fire, I smack my hand on to it to put out the singeing hair and half my forehead hair falls off into my hand, burning my hands in the process. I’m still smacking my head to put out the fire, ripping off my plastic glasses so they don’t melt and rushing in to my ensuite in the dark. Power was restored, burned hand was wrapped and I looked at my face. A cool burn mark, worthy of a Harry-Potter lightening bolt and to make the situation more traumatic, a chunky tuft of singed hair that could not be moulded into a fringe. So it was a good six months of tuft-y fun, waiting for the re-growth.
My friends are gracious when inviting me to birthdays, weddings, celebrations in stating, ‘formal attire – Suzi excepted (for everyone elses Safety, Suzi -heels are not required!). They know my love hate relationship with heels. I so want to have the desirable ankle and find the comfortable heel. It has certainly alluded my thus far. The last time I wore heels, I broke my big toe. It hasn’t recovered. It aches in winter. Most people think I must be drunk to fall, but I rarely drink these days.
Working at a new job has meant explaining the occasional need to wear runners in a very formal corporate setting, including hiding ugg boots under my desk. There has been several near misses, tripping on stairs, walking in to walls and slipping on tragically flat flooring. My colleagues don’t even pretend to be surprised anymore. Nope, we have moved straight into mocking territory.
One time I was out drinking and wearing a low – heel (2-3 inches, a definite old lady heel) and three times I fell on my own two feet, no drinking that time either! And then as I was walking back to my car, my heel got caught in a grate and the shoe was stuck but my body kept going. Needless to say, I drove home barefoot that night.
Speaking of ‘shoe incidences’, there are the winter boot stories. The need for warmth and the need to look awesome, don’t always collide. Especially in a pub in the winter. The floors are both slippery and sticky, which means a confusing time where I either fall or can’t walk.
I am constantly attracted to handbags and wallets that are shiny or sparkly, but have no real functionality or use. These stupid accessory usually show themselves off during my particularly clumsy moments. There was one time I was late for a flight to Sydney and I was running the length of Tullamarine Airport and in a surprising turn of events, I did not trip or fall – until I arrived at the gate and realised my ticket was no where to be found and as I reached to my handbag, the entire bottom of the bag ripped and the contents of my wallet and handbag fell to the floor, much to the chagrin of the Qantas staff. It did make it easier to find my ticket amongst all my crap. I did make some friends, including one particularly young attractive man who smiled at me throughout the flight. I suppose he felt sorry for me.
My un-co ness isn’t limited to just hurting me. I’m consistently ‘breaking phones, computers, printers, the safe, all the things at work. These things never happen to the other team members. It’s an unspoken ‘super-power’ that I have. I fried three computers in the space of six weeks. The IT department has said that that is the record, it’s nice to know that even at my age, I’m still reaching goals and breaking records.
I’m fascinated to see how the un-co gene will progress as I get older. I’m hopeful, that it will be like some weird Benjamin Button reverse-aging situation where I just get better with age. Let’s see how that works out!
Are you uncoordinated or know someone who is? I would love to hear your stories!