I’ve always wanted to be graceful, but I don’t think my genomes will allow it.

In elementary school I was the girl that grew super fast and was a head or so taller than everyone else. (Actually, there was one girl who was taller than me but she moved away. I’m not going to lie – I was really happy to inherit her crown.)

The downside of quick height is that my mom said I looked like an octopus on the basketball floor. I like to think that I was agressive, with cat-like reflexes, but it turns out that might not have been the case after viewing pictures she took during one of the games.

In high school I was voted most clumsy and most athletic. I’m pretty sure that can only happen in a small school when the “girl” options are limited and you’re the only girl from your class still on the basketball team.

In college I distinctly remember slipping on ice at the crossroads of the campus inbetween classes. Excellent – an audience. I also remember falling the entire flight of stairs in my sorority, landing in a crumpled heap on the thinly carpeted concrete. My friends surely thought I was dead until I popped up.

When I would return home for a visit, my mom confessed that the family had taken to yelling “Jenny’s home” anytime something broke in the house. Ha. Ha. Ha.

On my wedding day I wore a long trained dress with a cathedral length veil. I probably should have had a tea length dress with a flower in my hair, but things seemed to work out that day. I’m going to chalk that one up to God’s intervention.

When I was 6 months pregnant with my son I fell down the stairs outside St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. We took it as a sign that the baby wanted to be part of history and named him Peter.

When both babies were born I was sure that they would slip out of my hands and that I’d be chasing after them, scooping them off the floor. I haven’t dropped either child, but they have fallen off the bed. (Which, by the way, is the most terrible feeling in the world.)

Over the last 6 years, my husband has been whacked in the head, dodged flailing body parts, poked in the eye, picked me up and out of containers, etc. This wonderful man takes it in stride, thank goodness.

I should almost buy cell phones that are construction grade. My brand new HTC Ozone has a nick in the top left corner that surely sacrificed a small bounce in its step. I once had a flip phone that was hanging on by a single green wire by the time I got a new one. Just today, as I checked email on the way to the car, my phone flew out of my hand and landed under the car. I had to crawl on my stomach on the street to get one part and then drive forward to retrieve the other. My son watched, bewildered, from the sidewalk.

As I got coffee the other day I realized I’d never be a ninja. Between getting a mug, the creamer, and pouring coffee it sounded like I was a barista in a crazy, busy joint. Nope, just me. Filling the cup in a white noise void office. I swear somebody shut their door to cancel the noise.

The funny thing about my non-grace is that I love high heels. Love, love, love them and wear them almost daily. I used to be a Clarks/Docs/Born kind of gal, but not for the last five or so years. You’d think that me plus heels would mean a teetering mess, but oddly, it doesn’t! In fact, I think the heels help me achieve some sort of illusion of grace, ala David Copperfield or something like that.

The good thing about being a clutz, though, is that it keeps things light. I’m able to laugh and not take myself so seriously. I’ve also given family, friends, and the occasional stranger an opportunity to laugh as well.

And for that laughter, I’ll gladly continue as the bull in the china shop.