self-portrait sunday

I am pretty much the klutziest person you will ever meet. When I was young I would trip on air bubbles as I walked across the room. I've broken my nose twice, and the first time it was because I tripped over my own feet. Consequently, when I was eight my mom decided to enroll me in ballet lessons. My younger sister, Joy, was also signed up for the enterprise, and I'm not sure why, since she was always much more naturally graceful and athletic than I.

I took ballet for four years, stopping at age twelve because that's the time when you go on pointe, and I was nowhere near dedicated enough for that. All these years later, I still consider myself a klutz. I've had friends tell me how graceful I am, and I have to laugh, because really? I'm so not. I can walk well in heels, and that is all. Change any factor, add any variations, and I'm a tripping giraffe. Put me in sneakers? I stomp about like a ravaging T Rex. Tell me a funny story while I'm moving forward? I'll probably trip. Attempt to slow me down from my ferocious walking speed? I shuffle like I'm in mortal need of a walker. Add too much caffeine to my system? I'll prance in my stilettos. Put on preppy little flats and I'll trip over my own feet and injure my rotator cuff. (True story. Wouldn't have happened if I'd had on heels.)

I walk well in heels. This is my athletic skill. I cannot catch or throw a ball. I cannot bowl, or ski, or skateboard, or spike a volleyball, or do a handstand. I walk. In heels.

And yet, so far? It seems to be sufficient.