I’ve always been pretty clumsy. I’m not the I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up type, (although, believe me, I have, sober, and it’s been bad). I’m more the loud-crash-followed-by-a-louder-“OH FUCK!” type.
I drop things a lot. I drop them like they are hot, even if they are cold.
And I don’t know why, but it’s been happening a lot more than usual lately. It’s been so bad, actually, that Eric has begun referring to me as “Hurricane Rachel.”
Thursday night, there was the incident with the frosting. I had just spent an hour making white chocolate buttercream frosting from scratch and then, somehow, before I knew it, the container was flying across the room, leaving an inappropriate stain on my kitchen floor.
Later that night, Eric found some Reese’s Pieces in my pantry and, after opening the box to have a few, left it on the island. I didn’t even have time to say, “Hm, that’s probably not a good place for that” before the sound of candy skittering across the countertop was cutting through our conversation.
Every time it happens, every time he hears the smash, the crash, or the scream, he just looks at me with exasperation, not saying anything. I give him my best, “Sorry the levees broke” face and hope he’ll come in like the Red Cross to help me clean it up.
The morning after the frosting spill, I made Eric and me smoothies for breakfast and was carrying them up to my bedroom. I honestly don’t know how it happened — I swear, the cup flew out of my hands like it was possessed. Before I could even shout “Goddamnit!” the white wall looked like a crime scene.
[Today’s lesson: magic erasers seriously are magical. And getting chocolate smoothie out of a textured wall is a bitch.]
I’m a spiller too. I wish it were socially acceptable for adults to wear bibs, because I think my excitement for good food combined with my inability to stop talking has led to many stains on nice outfits. Last Monday, I got greasy salad dressing on a sweater I was wearing for the first time, and yesterday morning, I got toothpaste on my shirt as I was brushing my teeth and didn’t have a backup, since I was at Eric’s. I spent the day feeling like Monica Lewinsky.
This is not the sort of behavior one should exhibit when she spends as much time as I do in the kitchen. I’m constantly burning myself as I splash hot bacon fat everywhere and slicing my fingertips as I chop veggies. I swear I’m not depressed or anything — but my marked-up arms tell a different story.
I took it to a new level on Saturday at Hob Lob. Eric and I were standing in front of a display of Halloween items and I saw what I thought was a nice ceramic tiered cupcake stand. It was actually two cake displays stacked on top of each other, but I couldn’t tell, since I was standing three feet below it. I reached up and grasped the bottom cake tier by the base and yanked…and took the top one down with it.
It all happened so fast. There was a flash of black ceramic, a scream, and then a large hairy arm saving me from the shame of “You break it, you bought it.”
I just couldn’t believe there was no crash. I was standing there cowering, bracing for impact, and when I looked up through my arms that I had flung over my face in an effort to protect my teeth, Eric was just staring at me with a look that said, “You are going to pay for my post-traumatic stress counseling.”
We were both out of breath in that way you get with near-death experiences and just stood in the aisle for a few minutes. He needed to calm down. I was just afraid to move another inch, certain I’d take a whole Christmas tree down with one false move.
And you know, I don’t even care that I leave a trail of destruction wherever I go, because, really, I’ve owned that I’m clumsy as shit. What pisses me off is that despite the fact that I don’t drink all day and I do, for the most part, behave like an adult, I’m sending a loud and clear message that I’m a drunken sorostitute who just decided to wander into a craft store at 11 AM and start breaking shit.
And in conclusion, that is my report on why I do not have sex standing up!