A Blow to the Head

Well, I injured myself yet again! As you may have already perceived, I am not the most graceful of persons. I was lying on our bed talking to my husband as he changed out of his work clothes, and in a moment of exasperation (and melodrama) over something he had said, I flopped back against what I anticipated to be the pillow, but was in fact the headboard. So I am now typing with one hand while clutching a bag of frozen corn to my head with the other. I am the coolest person ever...
My hubby always says (jokingly, but not really, you know?) that he hopes our children inherit most of his genes in the physical coordination department. And I have to agree. Manual dexterity, hand-eye coordination, and so forth have never really been my strong suit. Growing up, the hallway in my parent's house was always covered with the grimy prints of my hands from where I had passed by, groping at the walls for support. This went on probably until about age ten. Ah, well. I was a good reader, though! Great reading comprehension. This did not exactly win me cool points when teams were being chosen for kickball, but most of the time my nose was too buried in my book to notice that the crowd around me was thinning out.
Another painful childhood memory was tennis lessons, which were free at the local tennis court, with the catch being that the instructors were advanced students from the local tennis club. They are not the most sensitive of God's creatures, high school kids, and my instructor had nicknamed me "Ballerina" by the end of my stint with the racket, in an obviously tongue in cheek reference which did not exactly bolster my ambition to give the whole tennis thing another go the next summer.
Speaking of ballet, I also took lessons in dance, of the tap, ballet, and baton twirling variety. This is a somewhat tender spot, as I actually did like dance (as opposed to tennis) and cherished delusions of one day perhaps joining a dance troupe in Paris. So, imagine, if you will, ten little girls, aged eight to eleven, all dressed in airy tutus and opaque pink tights, executing tight little pirouettes across the dance floor. Now imagine, following in their wake, an eleven year old girl already with her full heighth and... womanly shape, if you will, including thighs which resemble plump sausages stuffed into pink casing, careening across the room, aim wildly off, her twirls ending abruptly when she spins herself into the wall. I am in no way exaggerating.
So I guess that's it for today. If you happen to know me and are ever curious about my various bumps and bruises, rest assured that they are self-inflicted, and maybe, if you think about, say a little prayer that the klutz gene ends with me!