Clumsy In The City



So it’s official. I’ve been in New York nearly two years. End of June that is. And I’ve never had a Age of more clumsiness. Or more bruises – just ask my acupuncturist. I’ve heard it said that clumsy people are slightly at odds with their environment. Which is funny because I feel totally assimilated into my current one. Perhaps I’m missing a beat? But then the clumsy never believe themselves to be clumsy. To them, it seems as if there is a grand conspiracy. I think there may be. I recently dated someone who was appalled at the continuous misplacement of a large plastic, turquoise, seashell-encased phone. I know, I know. But I reason this: going out with a clumsy person is a great way of reducing your dependence on material things. And, I must confess, the items do tend to find their way back. It’s almost an exact science.

Most people feel quite warmly towards the clumsy. Shoutout to my mother. She knows the best that my clumsiness is actually a great way of meeting new people and apologizing profusely to them on my behalf. She also knows that I don’t dance on elevated surfaces. Ever. How do strippers do it? So far in the U.S. of A, I’ve torn my meniscus, broken a tooth, cricked my neck after lying on hidden rose quartz in a pillow (my rose quartz, my pillow), fallen up a flight of stairs and cut my lip, then slipped off a curb while my friend Gabi had her arm interlaced through mine. Side-note: I was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a pair of perspex lips in the other. All you need to know is that the wine, the lips (thanks Lulu Guinness) and Gabi’s arm remained perfectly intact. Not one scratch on them – see two paragraphs above for more detail. Now might be a good time to tell you that my nickname is Bambi.

The thing is, Nature is spectacularly clumsy. There’s volcanic eruptions, comets crashing into planets and seismic earthquakes. Is evolution one clumsy mistake after another? A swan is grace in motion, but not when it lands on ice. Am I comparing myself to a swan? Maybe. But I’ll tell you this: if my physical manifestation of the internal awkwardness everyone feels in the china shop of life makes you laugh (not scowl), then I’m doing something right. And I don’t mind one bit if you think I’m goofy. Or call me Bambi.



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